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Chapter Text

“Can’t believe you’ve made me do this,” Jaron groaned, pressing a hand to his forehead. He was dangling from a tree by his right ankle. “What am I going to tell Imogen?”

“The truth, for starters,” countered Roden. A flicker of a smirk crossed his face when Tobias agreed. “And I’ll point out that we didn’t pressure you into doing anything.”

“I specifically told you that you’d get into trouble, and you didn’t listen. Again,” Tobias dragged his sleeve across his forehead, obviously thinking of ways to solve the problem before them. 

The morning started out quite well.

Almost too well.

Roden was called away to investigate a broken bridge, as it had been dismantled several times over the course of a month and forced travelers to find different routes into Drylliad. 

It seemed like something the regents needed to take care of…

And the matter was left alone for several weeks. 

Until news came that an entourage of a lesser Bymarian king was to come to Drylliad. He was coming simply to rub elbows with Carthya, and discuss political matters with the former Princess Amarinda, who’d become an ambassador upon her marriage to Tobias. 

Jaron had been told that Bymarian entourages traveled in three parts. 

At the head was usually a trusted guardian, followed by the person holding a seat of power, and then followed by a decoy of some sorts. 

The bridge was dismantled quickly after word of the lesser king’s arrival spread throughout the area. A dozen soldiers were sent to mandate the bridge building and ensure that it stayed intact.

But no word had come from them in two weeks.

Roden himself decided to figure out who was causing the destruction.

And, unable to pass up a chance to do something, Jaron announced that he’d be going too.

Which meant that Tobias had to accompany them in the event that somebody was injured.

An all too likely event considering that both Roden and Jaron were going, and the whole ordeal reeked of bandits.

The ride out to the bridge was eerily calm. 

Tobias was sure that not even the birds were singing. The sun was shining with the perfect amount of heat and light, and the bugs were hiding in their crevices. No villagers walked along the road.

Not a single soul. 

It didn’t take long to figure out why. 

With the bridge in sight, Roden insisted on dismounting and keeping their horses out of the way. The horses were secured to a hanging branch a little ways off the road.

An icy fear crept up the back of Tobias’ neck once they returned to the road.

No sign of any bandits.

Anywhere.

They were being watched, Tobias was sure of it, otherwise he wouldn’t have felt so exposed. Energy seeped through the pretty afternoon. 

Powerful and unnerving.

Roden didn’t speak, Tobias could only assume that he was preparing himself for a bloody confrontation. However, Jaron continued to speak to Tobias concerning the repeatedly broken bridge.

“It’s annoying,” Jaron was saying. “The workers seem more than happy about it, considering that they’re getting paid for the repairs. I want to know why. What’s to gain from this?”

“I really think it has to do with bandits,” Tobias replied. He kept his eyes glued to the dismantled bridge now in sight.

“How did it get dismantled in the first place? Those stones are difficult to move.”

“Perhaps they’re using magic.”

“Stop touching my boot, Roden, you’re going to trip-” Jaron began, but his sentence ended with a yelp of surprise. 

Tobias couldn’t stop himself from crying out as he stumbled away from Jaron, who was trying to free himself from the rope tightly encircling his right ankle. 

“Bandits,” Roden grunted, sword drawn. 

A nervous chuckle escaped Tobias’ lips, “Bandits? Please tell me you’re joking, please, please be joking. They’ll kill us. Kill us like they killed those-”

“There’d still be blood on the stones if the soldiers I sent were killed. We need to get Jaron down.”

“Oh no,” Jaron snapped. “Keep me up here. I do so love the view. Gives me a new perspective on life.”

“Tobias, take my sword and cut the rope,” instructed Roden, gingerly holding his sword by the blade, the hilt pointed out to Tobias. “I’ll catch Jaron, keep him from hitting his fat head.”

“I do not have a fat head!”

“Sure you do, you just don’t like to admit it. Tobias, take the sword?”

“Can’t believe you’ve made me do this,” Jaron groaned, pressing a hand to his forehead. He was dangling from a tree by his right ankle. “What am I going to tell Imogen?”

“The truth, for starters,” countered Roden. A flicker of a smirk crossed his face when Tobias agreed. “And I’ll point out that we didn’t pressure you into doing anything.”

“I specifically told you that you’d get into trouble, and you didn’t listen. Again,” Tobias dragged his sleeve across his forehead, obviously thinking of ways to solve the problem before them. 

“The sword, Tobias.”

“Are you sure it’s supposed to be held like that?” He shuddered, thinking about the sharp blade against human flesh. Tobias knew all too well that Roden took great care of his weaponry. “I don’t want to cut-”

“Take the sword and cut the rope!” Both Jaron and Roden exclaimed.

“Right!” Tobias exclaimed, taking the sword hilt with both hands. 

He felt like he was cradling a broken bird, and he looked like it too. Tobias peered over his shoulder. Roden had a tight grip around Jaron’s waist. They both nodded.

With as much force as he could muster, Tobias heaved the sword over his head and down onto the rope attached to Jaron’s ankle. He grinned, “I did it, see? I can use a sword!”

“Congratulations, I’ll be sure to give you lands and another title once we get back to the castle,” Jaron grunted. He took several steps forwards, “Saints, that didn’t feel good.”

“Then stop walking on it, clotpole,” Roden countered, he beckoned for his sword back. “Definitely bandits in the area, I’ll take a look at the bridge. Jaron, make sure Tobias doesn’t end up dangling from a tree just like you.”

“Yes sir, captain sir.”

Tobias turned in a circle around himself, imagining hundreds of eyes on him.

Bandits’ eyes. 

Bandits who were waiting to kill him, Jaron, and Roden.

“We’re going to be attacked, aren’t we?” He muttered, swinging his hands back and forth. “The bandits are going to steal everything we have.”

“We don’t even know what they’re up to,” Jaron noted. He was balancing on his left foot, and rotating his right in a circle. “We’ve only ever heard news of the bridge being dismantled, not news of murders or robberies. I suspect it’s a demonstration or something. Probably related to the gangs in the area.”

“I’m a little rusty when it comes to criminal gangs.”

“But Roden isn’t, he knows what he’s doing.”

Despite Jaron’s confidence, Tobias still caught himself looking over both of his shoulders. 

He swore he saw one of the bushes move.

“No sign of any struggle, anywhere,” called Roden from the bridge precipice. He frowned, “I think-”

“What’s that sound?” Tobias crossed his arms, trying to identify what sounded like distant cannons.

“Drums,” Jaron said. “Seems the first part of the Bymarian entourage has come.”

“They haven’t taken another way. They’re going to be disappointed by the bridge,” Roden noted. He took a long look at the rushing of the Roving River. “I’ll cross and let them know.”

The drumming was soon accompanied by the sound of a score of marching soldiers. 

“We’ll come with you,” Jaron grabbed Tobias by the upper arm, dragging him towards the water. “My boots are going to be soaked.”

“Look on the bright side,” Tobias grinned. “Roden’s been overdue for a bath. It won’t be so smelly on our venture home.”

“I heard that!”

Jaron smiled at that, which only made Tobias feel better. 

Perhaps he’d been worrying about nothing all along. Perhaps they’d-

The marching suddenly stopped the second they all emerged from the water. Flashes of color moved in between the trees. 

Men were yelling as loud as they could. 

“Definitely bandits,” Roden growled through gritted teeth. He took off running, as did Jaron, leaving Tobias dripping with water.

“That’s not-!” He tried, but he knew that they wouldn’t listen to him.

He had two choices.

Run home and try to get reinforcements.

Or follow them.

Tobias cursed himself as he rushed after Roden and Jaron’s fleeing figures. 

There wasn’t a warrior’s bone in his body. He was unarmed. Tobias was well aware of how bad of an idea it was to be running after two of the bravest people he knew. The bandits would likely go after him first, but he couldn’t watch them rush off without knowing he’d be there if they needed it.

Swords clanged together.

Tobias’ head spun as he searched for Roden and Jaron in a sea of Bymarian soldiers and leather clad bandits. 

No sign of them.

He raised his hands to his mouth, prepared to call out to them.

And he nearly got away with it too.

The dagger at his throat stopped him from saying anything.

“We have no quarrel with your king,” growled the bandit from behind Tobias. “Find him, and tell him to go.”

“You-! Ah! That hurts!” Tobias shied his elbow as far as he could, feeling a rush of excitement when his assailant grunted in surprise. The blow landed between ribs, rather than in a fleshy stomach.

His captor was probably short.

The pressure at his throat lessened.

“You’re the one,” Tobias gasped, “-you’re the one dismantling the bridge.”

“You’re the one allowing traitors into your land. I have no quarrel, I seek to settle an old debt. Now move,” ordered the bandit, shoving Tobias forward.

“You’re making a mistake.”

“I don’t take orders from anyone. I give them.”

“He’s got the regent!” Shouted a Bymarian. “He’s got the ambassador’s husband!”

“Drop your swords,” snarled the bandit, his voice rising an octave. “Lower them, or I’ll slit his throat!”

“I’d really rather you didn’t!” Tobias whispered, slowly walking forwards. He sincerely hoped that Jaron and Roden wouldn’t be near.

There was no telling what the short bandit would do.

“Keep. Moving,” ordered the bandit, pressure returning to Tobias’s neck.

Ah.

There they were.

Jaron and Roden in the midst of it all, their swords still locked with two masked bandits.

“Give me Lord Feall!” Snarled the short bandit. 

“Or what?” Jaron scowled, his sword still extended, much like most of the Bymarian soldiers.

The bandit didn’t say anything, only pressed his knife to Tobias’ throat until he yelped, “I killed your men, I’m not afraid to kill him too.”

“I’m going to call your bluff,” the smirk on Jaron’s face only infuriated Tobias. “My captain here has been very insistent about the fact that there’s no sign of blood here. He could be wrong, it’s likely that your band here has the cleaning skills of the realm’s most famous maids.”

“I’m not here to play games!” The bandit exclaimed, “Bring me Feall!”

“Really Jaron I think- hey, hey, hey, let’s be gentle with the dagger? Please?” Tobias croaked, suddenly realizing that he was very much afraid to die.

“No need for more bloodshed, I’m right here,” said a knight. He took off his helmet, and tossed it at Tobias’ feet. “What are they calling you here? Shrike? The Black Knight?”

It was hard to look at the knight, Feall, who’s eyes were probably filled with pity. 

Stupid Tobias. Running off to a skirmish without a sword. 

There was something strikingly familiar about Feall. His brown, almond shaped eyes were all too recognizable. He had to be another lesser Bymarian king, or at least another nobleman.

He shared many traits with Amarinda.

“Fight me like a man, Feall,” growled the bandit. “There’s a score to be settled.”

“Many people want to settle scores with me, you’ll have to tell me your name first,” Feall dismounted, shared a look with Jaron and Roden, and held out his hands in surrender. 

“Rot in Hell.”

“You know that I’m not the one who’ll be rotting with the Devils.”

Silence settled over the forest. Feall’s long brown hair drifted lazily in the wind. No emotions lingered on his face. 

“Can you let me go now-?” Tobias began, wanting nothing more than to be far away from the short bandit. 

He did his best not to stumble once the bandit shoved him towards Jaron and Roden.

Tobias rubbed his eyes as he took in the details of the scene. The bandits were outnumbered, each one fighting off at least six soldiers. 

Even Tobias recognized that as a stupid move on their part, and he was no military strategist.

The short bandit that threatened him had to have been the same height as Imogen, if not a little smaller. He wore a threadbare cloak dotted with massive holes. The sword at his side was much skinnier than Tobias expected. 

Most bandits used broadswords.

“Ever seen this one before?” Jaron asked quietly, now holding his sword with both hands to keep it from falling.

“No,” replied Roden. His face twisted into a fierce scowl, “Actually… Perhaps. I’m not quite sure.”

“How can you not be sure!?” Tobias did his best to keep his voice down. “That bandit has to be the size of a teenager! How many of those roam the streets stealing food and lives?”

“Many, but this one hides. I’d recognize them. Most of the bandits I’ve dealt with don’t like covering their faces. Makes it hard to breathe.”

“Besides,” Jaron’s eyes were locked on the short bandit, “The bridge’s destruction began weeks ago. Our gentleman friend has likely been too busy ruining my roads to be able to build a reputation in Drylliad.”

“Feall can’t face the bandit alone,” Roden hissed, his eyes glued to his opponent…

Who was slowly inching away.

“What makes you say that?” Tobias murmured. Feall and the bandit were still locked in a standstill.

Jaron cleared his throat, “This type of bandit has one goal. Revenge. Otherwise, they would’ve been robbing the travelers who couldn’t use the bridge. Every one of these men will slay Feall, even if it means they all die.”

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” said Roden, his tone low and as hard as stone.

“No?” Tobias choked out. 

A wicked grin spread on Jaron’s face, “Absolutely.”

It all happened at once. 

Roden let out a shout that rivaled a lion’s roar, and swung his sword at his opponent, cutting him down instantly. Jaron rushed forwards, attacking the short bandit as Feall did the same.

A shout was lost among the clanging swords, but Tobias was certain it was either Jaron or Roden yelling at him to get out of the way.

So he did. 

Tobias ducked through a bandit racing to cut Feall in half. He slipped past battleaxes and swinging maces, doing his best to get away from the fighting and to the entourage’s untouched wagons. 

He would’ve been safely tucked beneath the first wagon he saw if it weren’t for the bandits who were silently boarding the vehicle. 

“What are you-?” Tobias blurted out, pointing his finger at the first bandit he saw.

Who, in turn, mimicked the same gesture.

They stood there, pointing at each other as Tobias worked through what he saw. Lines and lines of wagons, and yet, the bandits were only boarding the first and last wagons. 

Wait a moment. 

Tobias held his hands up, “I don’t want any more trouble.”

The bandit said nothing, but he did raise his eyebrows, almost challenging Tobias to rat them out. He was much more frightening than the masked bandit fighting Feall and Jaron. Scars crossed his face. A silver ring dangled from his left ear, similar to the ring Roden wore in his right. 

“There’s a pattern, mind if I see-,” Tobias began, taking a small step forward. The bandit in front of him held out his sword, the point nearly touching his throat. Tobias stopped.

“Can’t blame us for not trusting you,” the Bandit noted. His accent was thick. He motioned to the others behind him, attempting to get them to go faster. 

Bymarian bandits in Carthya.

“I don’t have a sword and I doubt I’d make enough noise to draw attention. If anything, you’re drawing more attention by pointing your sword at me.”

“Why shouldn’t I skewer you right now?”

“Because I think I know who you are,” Tobias stuttered, gesturing to the short bandit fighting Feall. “I can call King Jaron and Captain Harlowe away. Let you escape.”

Offering an opportunity to escape? To criminals? 

When had Tobias stooped so low?

But if he was right… The bandits before him weren’t criminals at all, or at least they weren’t until today. 

“Take a guess,” the bandit snapped, his sword still extended.

Tobias forced himself to remain calm, “Let me see what’s in the wagon then.”

“I’ll kill you if you’re wrong.”

“That’s reassuring.”

He inched towards the back of the wagon anyways.

“Aha!” Tobias exclaimed, pointing at the goods inside. He had to restrain himself from patting his own shoulder, “I knew it. I was right. You’re the Faola. That’s why neither the king nor his captain know who you are.”

“But you do?” The bandit countered, shooing Tobias away with his blade.

“Yes, yes I do, you’ve been the talk of many patients of mine. Though I wonder, how do you know what to deliver?”

“We have our ways.”

“So this means I’ve guessed correctly?” Tobias asked, suddenly giddy despite the battle.

“You will find your missing soldiers near Eberstein. Unharmed and unarmed, but alive. Tell your king we have no quarrel with him,” the bandit ordered, gesturing to Jaron…

Who was no longer fighting the short bandit.

Roden was mercilessly attacking the short bandit, who was struggling to hold his ground. 

The short bandit. 

“Why are you still here?” Tobias whipped around, waving his arms at the bandit behind him, which was probably not the best idea. “Get out of here!”

“A noble, telling us to flee,” chuckled the hulking bandit. “I’m here to ensure that you call of your-”

He never got the chance to finish his sentence. Tobias was dashing out to the fight without a second thought.

“You have to-! No, stop!” He called, trying his best to shove Bymarian soldiers away from the now fleeing bandits. “Don’t hurt them!”

“I told you-!” Roden shouted as his sword collided with the short bandit’s over and over again. “I told you to get to safety!”

“You don’t understand! These people aren’t who you think they are!”

“They’ve threatened a member of Bymar’s family!” Jaron called out, fighting back to back with Feall. “It’s considered treason!”

All Tobias knew was that he had to stop this somehow. 

But he was thin and unable to truly use a sword.

He looked back to the wagons, a momentary wave of relief flooding his crazed mind. The hulking bandit and the others were forcing the wagons into the woods. Many hung off the wagons’ sides, batting away the soldiers inevitably chasing after them. 

Eventually, they were going fast enough to escape the running soldiers. 

Good. 

The battle was thinning out with each passing second. Fallen Bymarians and bandits were dragging themselves away. 

Tobias found himself unable to move as he watched Roden manage to force the short bandit back, causing him to tumble to the ground. 

How could he make them understand?

“It should be me,” Feall said, rushing towards Tobias, Roden, and the short bandit still trying to escape.

Feall’s sword was streaming with red.

“We take people alive when we can,” growled Roden. 

“I know this man,” argued Feall. “There is an order for his death in Bymar.”

“We’re not in Bymar.”

The short bandit tried his best to crawl away, but Roden simply stepped forward, the point of his blade hanging perilously above the bandit’s throat.

“This is not a matter for discussion,” Feall stepped closer to the short bandit’s head, holding his sword in both hands. “I must be sure that justice is given to those who deserve it.”

It was as if Feall was moving through water.

He raised his sword high above his head, preparing to behead the short bandit.

The short bandit.

The one responsible for this raid on the entourage.

Members of the Faola, a gang entirely skilled at lying under the king’s eye, that their name had yet to reach Drylliad castle. 

Gathering his courage, Tobias knew how he could save the situation. He pointed away from the defeated bandit, his own voice ringing in his ears, “Bowman!”

Results came in an instant.

Feall turned his back to the ‘bowman’ hiding in the trees by the riverbank. Roden crouched to the ground, ducking his head behind his sword. 

Tobias remained standing.

Smugness crept through his feet, creeping up to his face.

He couldn’t stop from grinning.

The short bandit launched himself to his feet, only offering Tobias a glance of gratitude as he dashed after the wagons. 

“There’s no bowman,” Jaron said after watching Feall and Roden cover their heads for several moments. 

If looks could kill, Tobias would’ve been dead in an instant.

“What. Was. That.” Roden snarled, gesturing first to the imagined bowman and the fleeing bandit. “You cost us a criminal! They’ll be back now! All of them! Because of-!”

For the first time in a long time, Tobias interrupted, “I knew what I was doing.”

“You have some explaining to do,” Jaron’s voice was dangerously low.

Almost brimming with anger.

“Gladly,” Tobias shot back. “Would you like me to give a presentation in the regents’ room, or would an explanation right now suffice?”

“I think now would be best,” Feall inhaled, and sheathed his sword. “Now would be good before I inform Queen Danika that her niece’s husband is a sympathizer to treasonous killers.”

“There will be no such thing, and here’s-.”

“It better be a damn good explanation,”

“You’ll get it once everyone stops interrupting him,” Jaron snapped. He crossed his arms, “Go on, Tobias.”

He took a breath, clasped his hands behind his back, and began, “You’ll find that there’s nothing missing from the entourage save for food, blankets, and medicine. The goods inside will start popping up in various cities. As far as I’m aware, this is the first time the Faola have ever stolen, which is why neither of you were able to recognize if this situation was caused by bandits in the first place.

"They have yet to come to Drylliad, but I have patients from other cities inform me all the time about how they were afraid of starving to death, only to find barrels and barrels of provisions for them. Medicines, shoes, blankets. Evictions stopped because debts are paid without any eyewitnesses. The Faola aren’t criminals. I promise.”

“They are now,” Feall couldn’t conceal the disappointment in his voice. “These acts prove that the Faola can’t be trusted. They have an agenda.”

“To what? Eliminate you?” Jaron hid his scoffing tone with a cough.

“The short one who held you hostage, Lord Branch, is a wanted criminal in Bymar. Wanted for banditry and murder. Known by many names, but you know him now as the Faola.”

“They’re all a long way from home then if they’re all Bymarians, just like you,” Roden noted. “I’ll be sure to track them. They will be captured and judged in Carthya.”

“So be it,” a flicker of concern crossed Feall’s face, but he said nothing more.

“I can’t believe you made me do this,” Tobias chuckled. “Rush into a skirmish with no sword.”

“No, no, we didn’t make you do anything,” said Jaron as he gestured to Roden. “Everything you did today was of your own free will.”

Of his own free will.

Tobias grinned.

He liked knowing that he saved the Faola on his own.

That stupid grin didn’t leave his face, but Tobias did try to hide it when he caught Roden and Jaron glaring at him. 

But later that night, as he lay next to his dreaming Amarinda, he wondered what his actions would bring in the future.

Whatever those consequences were, they’d rest entirely on his shoulders.

Chapter Text

Drylliad usually welcomed high ranking visitors with a beautiful celebration, thanking the Saints for a safe arrival.

But it wasn’t every day that a king visited, even if he did answer to a higher power.

And it wasn’t every day that a king’s visit fell upon a festival date.

In the streets of Drylliad, streamers fluttered from windows. Lines and lines of short banners on ropes zigzagged across buildings and houses. Poles covered in flowers had been set up, ribbons hanging down from
their tops.

Tents housing food from all over the realms.

Tents boasting the best imported weapons.

Tents hiding the prettiest men and women from the public eye.

It wouldn’t be long before Chaos flooded the marketplace.

Children would chase stray dogs through the festival, and occasionally, drag their favorites home to become pets. Troubadours, dancers, fire eaters. There’d be massive stages built for elaborate puppet shows.

Roden couldn’t deny how excited he was to see it all.

As a child, he’d enjoyed festivals. He insisted on dragging Latamer, his childhood friend, with him to see the jousting knights and fire breathing dancers. They never missed a single one, even when Latamer was
convinced that he carried the plague.

Latamer was always hanging around in the back of Roden’s mind.

He should’ve been strong enough to save his friend.

At that very moment, he was awaiting orders from King Oberson, leader of Dinwallis, one of Bymar’s kingdom states, and from Jaron.

He stood in the castle’s great hall, Bymarian knight Lord Feall to his left, and Mott to his right. Behind Roden stood a small company of guards.

Just enough to keep the peace, but not enough to distract from the festival.

“King Jaron and I have been discussing the attack on Lord Feall,” Oberson said. He scratched at his patchy beard, “I have decided to keep my personal guard with me, though the Lady Amarinda has reassured me that
there is a slim chance of another attack.”

“You don’t know the Faola like I do,” Feall placed an armored hand over his chestplate.

“You’re right, but I do trust Lady Amarinda’s judgement and her husband was very insistent that the bandits who attacked you have ulterior motives,” Jaron crossed his arms. “However, Lord Feall, I advise you to take
care in the streets. The Faola haven’t resurfaced since their attack, but it did seem that at least one of them wanted you dead.”

Ah, the short bandit.

It wasn’t very often that bandits and thieves managed to escape Roden.

He was talented at his job, his drive for justice was a fuel nobody else could really understand.

The short bandit and the Faola would be apprehended eventually.

Roden remained silent as he pondered the situations that could arise. There were guards stationed in the woods at various locations, the company of guards behind him were to patrol the outskirts of the festival,
and he and Feall would be keeping an eye on the festivities in the center of it all.

He didn’t want to admit that Tobias was right about the Faola.

That they did end up redistributing the goods they’d stolen.

Saints, his inability to catch them made him tense with frustration.

There were better ways to go about delivering justice to the unfortunate. It didn’t require breaking the law.

“I only hope that the Faola don’t try to ruin this festival,” Feall joked.

“As do I,” said Jaron. “Roden, I trust your plan to work, you can send your men out as soon as you feel ready.”

A small grin crept across his face.

There was no way Roden would say it aloud, but hearing people tell him that they ‘trust’ his plans was beyond invigorating. It was simply proof that he was an efficient leader and a capable captain.

Jaron arched an eyebrow.

Ah, Roden was still grinning.

He forced a scowl on his face.

“We’re ready to deploy.”

Roden glanced at Mott, who cleared his throat, “Will you be alright without us, Jaron?”

“I’ll have you know that I don’t require a governess to watch my every move. I won’t get into trouble.”

Nobody said a word, as nobody dared inform Jaron that despite his efforts to avoid causing a ruckus, he tended to attract danger.

Jaron threw up his hands, “Imogen’s going to be with me! Is that enough reassurance?”

“I suppose, though sometimes I believe Imogen encourages your antics,” Roden teased. He turned around, ordering his men to their positions before Jaron could protest.

“Do you have a backup plan if they do decide the festival’s too boring for them?” Mott asked quietly, following Roden out of the great hall.

He shrugged, “I predict that Jaron is going to disguise himself, Imogen and Amarinda will follow suit, and they’ll avoid Tobias as if their lives depend on it.”

Mott chuckled, “He’s quite the mother hen.”

“It’s inconvenient at times.”

The image of Tobias frantically searching through the streets brought a grin to Roden’s face. Tobias would probably try to enlist the help of the royal guard, insisting that something was wrong, only to find the trio laughing at him from the safety of a tent tavern.

“Have you any word of the Faola?” Mott asked. He pushed the castle’s front door open, and didn’t wait for Roden as he walked down the steps. “Have your scouts found anything?”

“Not exactly,” Roden confessed. The morning sun already beat down on him. He’d chosen the wrong day to wear a full suit of armor. “There’s a friend of mine who may have a few words to share, but I don’t even
know if he’s here.”

The last of the guards crossed the castle bridge, split into two groups, and left for their posts. Mott squinted at the towering poles bedecked with ribbons and flowers, “Ah, he’s the troubadour you were telling me
about the other day.”

“The one and only. Last I heard from him, he was busy in Mendenwal.”

“Let’s hope he makes an appearance today.”

———————————————————————————————————–

Hours passed, but still no sign of anyone remotely resembling the Faola. Roden, Mott, and Feall rode together through the streets, doing their best to avoid the unlucky few who were already succumbing to alcohol.

“Ah, day drinking,” Feall chuckled. “I understand their reasonings behind that all too well.”

A smirk crossed Mott’s face, “I can’t deny that I’ve considered smuggling a flask into meetings with regents.”

“I have smuggled a flask into meetings with regents,” Roden chuckled, but he had no intentions of trying any kind of drink anytime soon. He had a troubadour to find. “Have you seen anything Feall?”

“Not since you asked me twenty minutes ago.”

“Have you seen the Faola before?” Mott asked, wrinkling his nose at the sight of a woman waving at him from a scarlet tent.

“I have, their leader is Bymarian,” Feall explained. “I don’t know his name yet, but I have suspicions. I think he comes from the kingdom of Idunn Craich, but I can’t be sure.”

“Another kingdom state,” Roden noted, still scanning the crowd for his contact. “I know of two. Bultain and Dinwallis.”

“Idunn Craich is a kingdom state too, so that’s three.”

“And the other two?”

Feall grinned, “Ulster and Midhe. Congratulations, captain, you’ve learned all five Bymarian kingdoms. Would you like a medal for that?”

Roden’s cheeks burned, but he didn’t say anything.

Despite his actions during the Avenian War, he still had to struggle with the education he’d been denied.

Noblemen within the military ranks adored pointing it out.

“Any sign of the troubadour?” Mott shielded his eyes against the blazing midday sun.

“Not yet,” Roden said. “He goes by the name Jolly, he typically prefers bright colors. He’s Bymarian, if that helps.”

“Ah,” Mott nodded. “Find a place to keep the horses. Does he differentiate between men and women? Is he a gambler?”

“He’s, ah, definitely the life of the party. Why?”

Mott dismounted, gesturing for Roden and Feall to do the same. He then tipped his head in the direction of a massive building resembling a castle, “I think I know where he is.”

“Even if it isn’t him,” Feall said as he led his horse to a post. “This seems like the area he’d be in.”

“Do you know Jolly?” asked Roden in surprise, resting his hand on his sword hilt.

“I do, as a matter of fact. He’s a favorite of Queen Danika.”

That didn’t bring any surprise.

Though Jolly didn’t remain in Carthya for long increments of time, he visited often, and he always brought tales of his escapades with whoever he chose. Often, his visits ended in a bar fight or running from a
disgruntled spouse.

Life was never boring with Jolly.

As they approached the temporary castle, Roden caught himself walking as slowly as he could.

Dear Saints, there was just so much to take in.

So many people hawking their wares.

Entire suckling pigs roasting on spits.

Jesters swallowing swords, fire, and many other things that would definitely kill the inexperienced.

To Roden’s embarrassment, he had to jog to catch up to Feall and Mott, his armor smacking together with loud metallic clangs.

“Don’t worry, you can have your fun soon,” Mott said, clapping Roden on the shoulder. “You’re the one who wanted to do this.”

“I know, and you’re right, I shouldn’t get distracted,” mumbled Roden as they stepped through the castle’s threshold.

The scent of cooking meat wafted through the temporary castle, accompanied by the spicy aroma of spilled wine and abandoned sweets.

Despite the magnificent exterior, the temporary castle looked like any other tavern. The walls were made of stone, the floor being the trampled grass, and the windows consisting of several sticks and a gap between stones. Tables bore broken legs and chipped surfaces. A staircase led up to another floor, guarded by pockmarked women in ragged dresses. Kegs lined the back wall, a bar as long as the castle’s width stood in
front of them, and various sorts of mugs and cups hung from the ceiling.

A grin spread on Roden’s face.

He was certain that this place was a site for enjoyment.

“There, at the back,” Mott said, tilting his head towards a large crowd of men and women near the tavern’s keg wall.

“That can’t be-,” began Roden, but he knew Mott was right the second he caught a flash of a peacock green jerkin.

Feall whistled, “That’s definitely Jolly.”

At the mere mention of his name, Jolly stood up, a dimpled smile breaking across his chiseled face, “See? I told you they’d come!”

The grin on Roden’s face instantly melted into a frown, “This isn’t going to be good.”

“Do we-,” Mott started, but he was cut off the second a group of tavern patrons shoved them all forward.

“Captain Harlowe! It’s been far too long!” Jolly exclaimed, lithely jumping from the countertop he’d been standing on. “How are you? Still pursuing that one minstrel? Saints, can’t remember her name. The one with the-”

Jolly held his hands out a fair distance from his chest, leaving Roden to uncomfortably clear his throat, “I need to ask something of you, Jolly.”

“Ah, anything, but then I need to ask something from you,” Jolly swayed on his feet, and would’ve toppled over if it weren’t for the woman who caught him. Jolly patted her cheek, “I knew you cared about me, love.
What, or who, can I do for you, captain?”

“Have you ever heard of the Faola?”

That was all it took to force Jolly to straighten out. He frowned, “Why?”

“They’re here in Carthya,” explained Feall. “King Oberson of Dinwallis and I were attacked several days ago by them.”

“They’re in Carthya?” Jolly shot a look at the woman at his side. “Shoo, Merry, I have to talk business.”

The woman, Merry, scowled and yanked Jolly’s full tankard from him as she walked away.

“We’ll talk later?” called Jolly.

Roden almost didn’t catch the fact that Feall’s eyes were glued to Merry’s leaving figure.

There was something in Feall’s eyes that couldn’t be placed.

“Right, the Faola,” Feall said, jolting himself back into the conversation. “What do you know?”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Jolly waggled his finger as he simultaneously smoothed out his jerkin. “Captain Harlowe, I desperately need your help before we do any talking about a subject that’ll definitely get me into trouble.”

It wasn’t the first time Jolly had asked for help. Typically, he asked for assistance in escaping somebody he’d crossed, or needed help paying off a tavern bill. The chances of anything being different were slim.

He trusted Jolly.

Roden nodded, “It’s alright, you can tell me later, I promise I’ll help you in any way that I can.”

“No, Captain, I don’t think you under-”

“Tell me about the Faola, please.”

For a moment, Roden worried that Jolly would remain silent.

Was discussing the Faola truly that bad?

He tried not to look relieved when Jolly finally nodded.

Jolly cleared his throat, and looked over both of his shoulders to his drunk companions, “I’ve had a few run-ins with them, not terrible company, if I do say so myself. There are worse bandits that I’ve had to deal with, but still bandits.”

“What do you know of their leader?” asked Roden, holding out a hand the second Feall tried to interrupt him.

“Bangol Bandir?” Jolly chuckled, his eyebrows rising in the process. “Absolute cheater at cards. I wouldn’t want to expose him, though.”

“Bandir’s not very big…”

“We must be thinking of two different Bangol Bandirs because the one that I know could crush your head between his thighs, Captain.”

Mott smirked, “That description matches the bandit we’re looking for just perfectly.”

“Ha,” Roden didn’t bother hiding the annoyance now throbbing through his head. “Your jokes brighten my day.”

“No, no, no,” Feall blurted out, speaking before Roden could get him to remain quiet. “I’m Lord Feall, a member of Queen Danika’s court, and while traveling here I was singled out by a bandit much shorter than you. It could’ve been a woman.”

“Couldn’t be Faola then, Bandir doesn’t employ women for thievery. He uses them to poison enemies too strong to challenge in battle,” he turned to one of his friends. “Can you find Merry? I want my drink back.”

“Tobias insisted that the bandits were Faola,” Mott scratched his chin, a thoughtful expression cemented on his face. “Perhaps the bandit who attacked you, Lord Feall, wasn’t a leader at all.”

“Impossible, there’s no way a single bandit could-,” he began, but he never finished his sentence.

“By the Saints! Lord Feall? I know you,” Jolly burst, a new drink in his hand thanks to his crowd of followers. “Haven’t seen you in years, has your inheritance been resolved?”

“Inheritance?” Echoed Mott and Roden in unison.

Feall’s face darkened, “I was set up to inherit Idunn Craich, but the, ah, rules of inheritance have become muddled. Idunn Craich’s throne was left to a disgraced family, but as Queen Danika sees it, there is more to
the story. Idunn Craich will be mine someday, but that’s beside the point. You’ll have to forgive me Jolly, we rarely conversed.”

“Ah, but that doesn’t matter, I heard everything about you from court,” said Jolly as he took a prolonged sip from his tankard.

“Anyways,” Feall cleared his throat. “Have you any idea who could’ve led the attack?”

“Possibly. But what’s in it for me?”

Roden kept his mouth shut as both Feall and Mott looked to him. He scowled, “I already promised you that I’d assist you. What more do you want?”

“I- I just,” Jolly stuttered, and he wiped his hands on his tunic.

Jolly… Nervous?

A rare occurrence indeed.

“What do you want?”

“I bet against that table over there, regarding the, uh, joust this afternoon… And the man I bet on…”

Oh no.

That’s what Jolly meant when he asked for help.

That’s why he wouldn’t speak until he knew that his request would be fulfilled.

He needed to know that there would be somebody to ride in the jousting tournament and win for him.

“That’s too much to ask, Jolly,” Mott was dangerously calm. “There’s not enough time to find somebody to ride in the place of your failed man.”

“It’s going to cost me money,” Jolly wailed. “It’s going to tarnish my reputation!”

“We’ll pay you the money you lost for the information,” Feall offered, his eyes blazing with determination.

“You should understand the importance of a reputation, sir!”

“We’ll pay you double! Triple-!”

“That’s enough,” Roden held up his hand, and a light smirk crossed his face. “I’ll ride in the joust, but I’ll only do it if you tell me what I need to know. Can you promise me that, Jolly?”

“You? Joust? Captain, that’s absurd. You don’t-!”

“You’d be surprised at what I’m capable of, my friend.”

Roden shrugged once he realized that Mott and Feall were staring at him. He’d practiced on his own time, there was a large array of perks that came with being able to use a lance on the battlefield.

Now he’d have the chance to ride in a tournament.

Granted, it was his first official tournament, but Jolly didn’t need to know anything about that.

“Alright, fine,” Jolly looked over his shoulder again, and then gestured to a broken table in the corner. “I’ll tell you what I know about the Faola.”

“Thank you-,” Roden began, but Jolly shook his head.

“I’m trusting that you’ll win the tournament, Captain, otherwise… Things will no longer continue to work in my favor. Shoo! Go away!”

Jolly continued to wave off his companions as they approached the table. They soon lost interest in him, and turned to harass the poor minstrel in the corner.

“Right,” Jolly rubbed his hands together. “Now, there’s rumors following the Faola like nobody’s business. I’ve seen sections of them working in Bymar and Avenia, so they’re not just exclusive to Carthya.”

“Bymar, that would line up with why they’d attack Feall but not King Jaron,” Roden noted, wishing he had something to write down everything Jolly said.

“Could the attacker have been a woman?” Feall asked, his brow furrowing.

“Hush, let the man speak,” Mott held up a hand.

Feall shut his mouth.

“Thank you,” said Jolly. “It’s entirely possible you were attacked by a woman, but I doubt it, Faola women are much smarter than the men. They’d administer poison to you in doses till it seemed like you died of natural causes. They’re all quite dominant, too, frightening once they get you tied up and-”

“Jolly. Remain on the subject.”

“Sorry Captain, where was I? Ah yes, potential identities. Several members of the Faola adopt names that aren’t their own, some use it to instill fear and others use their stolen names to justify their causes. Notable
aliases include Veldergrath, Bevin Conner, Mireldis Thay, Joth Kerwyn, King Eckbert himself. It’s a way of being able to hide the fact that they work with bandits.”

“I recognize Mireldis Thay,” Feall murmured, but he couldn’t remain quiet any longer. He smacked the table, “She’s what stands in the way of Idunn Craich.”

“It would be idiotic for Lady Thay to use her first name while fighting as a bandit,” Mott pointed out.

Jolly nodded, “And then attack you. Besides, I know Lady Thay, she’s far from here. It’s just somebody tarnishing her name, just as the bandits who sport Lord Kerwyn’s name are trying to do. No, no, I suspect that you’re dealing with somebody else. Have any details I can go by?”

“Nothing, aside from the height,” Roden said. “He, or she, was short, a little bit shorter than the average woman.”

“Perfect!” Jolly exclaimed, standing up as he did so. “I’ll see what I can do about finding your mystery bandit. And don’t forget to win that tournament, Captain, I highly suggest that you don’t lose.”

———————————————————————————————————–

“I’m beginning to worry that you haven’t gotten anything keeping you away from making stupid choices,” Mott said, tapping Roden’s head. “Jaron’s rubbed off on you.”

“Ah, well, I need to learn all that I can about the Faola, and Jolly is our best bet,” Roden said, strapping a plate of armor to each of his legs.

The tent he and Mott were sheltered in was blindingly hot.

The armor Roden put on made the heat nearly unbearable.

“You’re sure you’re going to be alright?” asked Mott as he shoved a helmet in Roden’s direction.

He shrugged, “There’s danger in everything I do.”

It wasn’t his first time using a lance, he’d trained for several months after he realized the value in being able to wield a lance while in a battle. Roden knew the risks and he knew the rules.

But a splintering lance was far different from a sword.

A splintering lance might not hit you directly, but chances were high that a piece of wood could lodge itself in your face or neck.

Not an enjoyable way to die… Not that dying is something to be enjoyed.

Roden pulled the helmet on over his head, and slid the visor up, “Would you give me a favor of yours to carry with me?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Please remember my name if I fall on this lovely afternoon,” Roden joked, slamming the visor over his face.

Mott scowled, “You’re not going to die, and if you do, it means you’re awful at jousting.”

“I suppose I have to win now so I can prove you wrong.”

“I’m concerned, were you not planning on winning in the first place?”

“There’s always a chance at losing, but I try not to let that be an option. This will be over soon, my friend,” Roden’s voice was muffled behind the helmet. “We’ll meet at the tavern this evening, Jolly said he’d be waiting there.”

The sound of trumpeters shook the summer air. Mott frowned, and held the tent flap open for Roden, silent and disapproving as he almost always was. However, he did clap Roden’s armored shoulder and whispered
a few words of luck before he made his way to the stands.

Children waved multicolored flags at him, Roden waved back.

Ah, how he’d dreamed of taking up a lance.

Jolly’s rider, the man Roden was replacing, was an older knight named Cronnach Nyrsate. Sir Nyrsate’s coat of arms had been painted onto a wooden shield and leaned against the judges’ box… Which usually sat

Jaron, Imogen, the Prime Regent, and three other guests.

It was a surprise to see Jaron holding Imogen’s hand in their seats and not off causing trouble. Harlowe sat next to them.

Saints, it would be humiliating if Roden lost in front of his father.

Sir Nyrsate’s horse was supposed to be ridden for the match, but Roden had just enough time to pull enough strings and get his own horse armored and ready to go.

That would give him a slight advantage. His horse, a gift from Bymar, was massive. Bred specifically for war. It made the rider taller, never stopped, and brought a crushing power that rivaled all other warhorses.

It was a little frustrating, however, to see Roden’s horse bearing the Nyrsate coat of arms rather than the Harlowe coat of arms.

Roden swung up into the saddle…

And finally allowed himself a look at his opponent.

He didn’t recognize the coat of arms, nor did he recognize the horse. All Roden saw was a large man in battle scarred armor, which would’ve been painted black at one point. A red plum erupted from his helmet.

Definitely more than a little intimidating.

Jaron stood up, and raised his hands out to the stands full of festival goers. Roden was too far away to hear anything.

Not that he would’ve been able to hear anything anyways.

He was far too focused on his opponent.

“Sir! Sir Nyrsate!” Bellowed a flock of snot nosed teenagers, street rats, and esteemed young heirs to noble houses.

Roden waved a hand at them, he couldn’t speak now. He needed to focus.

“Ah, good sir!” Shouted a man over the roar of the crowd. Jaron must’ve said something funny. The man waved his hands. “Sir!”

Roden squinted, Jolly was there to see him off.

“Good luck,” called Jolly as he launched himself over the barrier keeping the viewers out. A girl followed behind. “Me and Merry came to give you a send off, and the kids of course, you simply have to let them send
you off.”

“A favor for you, sir knight,” Merry bowed deeply, retrieving a dirty blue scarf from the front of her gown as she did so. She tied it to Roden’s right wrist before stepping back to help several members of Roden’s
screaming fans over the side of the fence.

“Remember, if you knock him off his horse, it’s an instant win,” Jolly patted Roden’s thigh, and hefted a lance over to him.

“I know the rules,” Roden huffed as he tucked the lance under his arm.

A page stepped out from Jaron’s box, holding out a flag like a sword.

The flag went up.

Roden charged forwards, a small band of children howling as they chased him and his horse for several feet.

All he had to do was aim for the center, lower the lance, and hold firm.

Inhale.

Exhale.

The crowd began to scream the second a lance cracked-

Stars blurred across Roden’s vision.

He missed!

Saints, he hoped Mott didn’t see that. Jolly’s concerned face from the crowd didn’t help, Merry was the one to get him a new lance.

Flag up, screaming children, crowd cheering.

Roden missed again.

It took three points to win a match. Points were earned when a lance was broken or a rider was toppled. One point for each broken lance, and so far, Roden hadn’t broken any of his.

He was two points down.

One point away from losing.

Anger burst through his lungs.

How could he have been so stupid!? Signing up for a joust! He’d never ridden in front of so many screaming civilians before!

The children who’d been chasing at him clamored for his attention, but they backed away the second he didn’t say anything.

“Lean in the saddle,” Merry said as she handed Roden a fresh lance. She patted his horse’s shoulder, “I know you’re fierce, unhorse him and that’s a match.”

“I’ve never done this before,” Roden confessed, unsure if she’d heard him over the roar of the crowd.

“You’ve done it twice just now, third time’s the charm. Go on, don’t let Jolly down. Or me. You’re wearing my favor, and everybody in town knows that it’s mine. You’ll damage my reputation.”

“I’m so sorry about your reputation.”

“As you should! Be more sorry about your reputation, sir knight!” Merry shot back, her hands on her hips. “Are you so quick to give up?!”

The crowd screamed, Roden jolted to attention.

His opponent charged early, ready to finish the match off.

Merry cried out, and slapped out at Roden’s horse’s flank, causing the mighty beast to rear up.

Roden shouldered the lance, forcing the horse in a straight path down the arena.

Lean in the saddle

He could hear Merry’s words ringing in his head.

Time seemed to slow around him as he blocked out everything save for the man barreling towards him. The crowd’s screams were muffled.

Like they were shrieking underneath a pond’s surface.

Lean in the saddle.

The rider was coming closer and closer to him.

Roden gripped the lance and-

Wood splintered.

The unmistakable sound of metal colliding with the solid ground cut through the muffled noises.

He was still in the saddle, holding a shattered lance.

Roden was still in his saddle.

He’d made a hit!

Instantly, Roden turned his horse around itself, and held up the broken lance to Merry and Jolly. His opponent was being dragged out of the arena by his foot. Pages chased the runaway horse. Mott was standing among the crowd, his hands above his head.

“That was amazing!” Jolly shrieked as he ran to Roden. “Knocked him clean off!”

A trail of all sorts of children, the ones who’d chased Roden down the arena, came flooding, waving their banners and shouting for “Sir Nyrsate’s” attention.

“You better pay up,” Roden said, tossing the broken lance to the ground.

The children all scrambled for it.

“Oh, I will, I promise I will,” Jolly vowed, grabbing Merry by the shoulders to plant kisses all over her face. “Dear Saints, I’ve won too much money.”

“Don’t gamble on drunks ever again,” Merry snapped as she shoved Jolly away from her.

“Oh, I won’t, I promise I won’t.”

Roden was certain that he and Merry were thinking the same thing: Jolly would certainly go on to bet on more drunks.

But perhaps it was worth it.

After all, Roden received his chance to ride in a jousting tournament.

And he’d guaranteed an opportunity to learn more about the Faola.

It wouldn’t be long before he caught them.

Chapter Text

The sun was gleaming in a cloudless sky for the first time in several days.It was difficult to find the motivation to move out of the sunlight. Light poured in through the large windows peppered throughout Amarinda's room. Occasionally, the light reflected off of the many glass bottles lining the far wall, creating a flash of color.

Beautiful displays of light caused by different colored glass bottles filled with who-knows-what.

An unknown perk of being married to a physician in training.

Saints, was this how a cat felt when sleeping on a rock? Doused in sunlight and colorful reflections?

"Is it wrong that I'm more excited for this afternoon than I've been for weeks?" Imogen asked, lacing up both of her boots. "I know I shouldn't find it fun, terrorizing Tobias like this."

Amarinda grinned. She plucked at the loose strings on her borrowed pages' tunic, "I love terrorizing Tobias. Usually because he ends up giving a lecture and then breaking into the widest grin. I think he secretly likes being the one to make sure everybody's still alive after anything remotely enjoyable happens."

"He certainly doesn't seem that way," noted Imogen.

"Ah, I felt the same way too."

Imogen laughed, which made Amarinda laugh. It was easy to be herself when dressed as a petty thief. It was easy to let herself smile when preparing for an afternoon of fun with her best friend.

Oh, Tobias.

Truth be told, Amarinda didn't expect herself to fall head over heels for Tobias all those years ago, she'd expected to marry into the Carthyan throne.

But fate had a different plan for her, and Amarinda certainly wasn't complaining.

"Right, well," Amarinda stuffed her long brown hair into the ugliest cap she could find. "I've got a whole list of things that I want to get done before you and Jaron have to, ah, attend business."

"I don't like that devilish smirk, the only business being taken care of is completely official," but the pink tinge to Imogen's ears gave her away.

It was no secret that Jaron had made a sport of squeezing in, ah, personal business affairs into his busy schedule whenever he could.

Though it was definitely a secret that Imogen was the one encouraging Jaron.

Unable to stop herself, Amarinda began to fan her face, imitating Jaron to the best of her ability, "Oh Imogen, this joust is simply delightful. I love sitting down. Let's be completely behaved. And afterwards, we can go to the chapel and pray."

"Oh, shut up! You know how much of a chore it is to get Jaron into any kind of church!" Imogen's frustrated tone melted into a laugh. She grabbed a pillow, and hurled it at Amarinda's head.

It didn't take much effort from Amarinda to catch the pillow.

Even if Imogen had thrown the pillow with the intention to hit her target, Amarinda would've been able to catch it.

Sometimes being the princess from one of the strongest kingdoms in the realms paid off.

Amarinda could hold her own in a fight, no matter how much the other women in court tried to deny it.

The door creaked open, and Jaron slithered his way in. He'd already begun to smirk.

There'd be no getting rid of that smirk until Tobias had lectured the trio and then blushed when he realized that they enjoyed giving him a hard time.

"I've sent Roden, Mott, and Lord Feall off to search for the bandits. The Faola," Jaron said as he shamelessly tugged his tunic over his head and replaced it with a worn down shirt. "I don't know if I should wish them luck or tell them that this is becoming a wild goose chase."

"Roden won't stop until he knows why Feall was attacked," Amarinda pointed out. She made her way over to the massive bench resting in the sunlight.

"Maybe there's no underlying reason for the attack, though, and that's what I'm trying to get Roden to realize by sending him off."

Amarinda snorted.

Ever since the attack, Tobias brought up the Faola whenever he was near Roden or Mott, and he always tried to paint them as the good guys.

Tobias looked for the best in people.

It was one of the many things Amarinda loved about him.

At one point, Tobias began explaining the Faola to her. Of course, he was unaware of the fact that Amarinda knew much more than she let on.

Much more.

But she didn't have the heart to crush Tobias's ideas.

And she knew that maybe there was more to the Faola's story.

If she was correct with her assumptions, then Amarinda knew exactly why Feall had been attacked.

If she was incorrect in her assumptions, then Amarinda was grasping at Bymarian straws.

She would wait to give her information. She would wait until she had proof of her beliefs.

Until Tobias recognized that the Faola were just another gang.

Or that he'd been right the entire time.

"-and apparently there's going to be flavored ice, which I thought was a winter thing," Jaron was tugging on a holed boot.

Had she really been so trapped in her own thoughts as to not notice the conversation around her?

Wouldn't be the first time that happened.

"Amarinda came up with a list for all of us," Imogen said with a smile. "I think I'm the most excited to see the performers."

"Ah, but you'll want to be careful, some people are ridiculously good at picking pockets," interjected Amarinda.

"I'm excited for the food," Jaron kissed the top of Imogen's head, and followed the sweet gesture by flinging her braid over her face.

Imogen swatted him away, "Shoo! Shoo you starving boy!"

"No! Speak to me kindly! My heart bruises easier- ow!- than my skin!" He laughed, dodging Imogen's giggling blows. Jaron caught her by the wrists, and spun her into an embrace, "Now, what do you two say to leaving through the windows? Tobias will never see it coming. . ."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There was only one instance where they nearly got caught.

Jaron insisted that he knew where one of the best troubadours in the realms was. He led Amarinda and Imogen halfway across the festival grounds to one of the most elaborate temporary buildings they'd seen before.

Somebody had really gone and set up an imitation of a castle.

Amarinda couldn't believe it.

"Don't worry, he's a friend of mine," Jaron insisted as he stepped into the temporary castle, which turned out to be a massive tavern.

"Have you told me about him?" Amarinda asked.

She had a sinking feeling that she knew exactly who Jaron was talking about.

"I haven't told you," he shrugged his way past a pair of massive Gelynians. "But I have told Imogen. Even got him to come play while you and Tobias were out and about."

"He has the most wonderful voice and the cleverest songs," Imogen gripped Jaron's hand, and then reached out to Amarinda.

She took Imogen's hand, determined not to be lost in the crowd, "This troubadour, he doesn't happen to have a song in his repertoire about Roden, does he?"

"Oh, he definitely does," confirmed Imogen.

"It's actually really funny, it's not what I was expecting, that's for sure," Jaron added. "Ah, there he is! Hey! Jolly! Over here!"

All it took was one glance at the peacock green tunic, and Amarinda knew.

She knew Jolly all too well.

"Ah! Your, uh, my old friend!" Bellowed Jolly. He was strumming a loot. "It's good to see you! Have you brought me company?"

"This is my wife, Imogen, and my dear friend, Amarinda."

Jaron's wink nearly went unnoticed. However, Jolly nodded, and pushed the black haired girl next to him into the crowd, "Get me a drink, Merry, and don't come back unless it has cream and a cherry. Ah ha! Merry, cherry. My lyricism is a divine gift."

"I can tell," Amarinda didn't mean for her tone to suddenly become so dry.

Jolly was bad news wherever he went.

“I’ve written a new,” Jolly hiccuped, “-song. You’ll have to let me come sing it for you.”

“A new song?” Jaron’s eyes were glimmering with mirth when he looked back at Imogen and Amarinda.

“You’ll have to come sing it for us,” Imogen said. “Is it a happy one?”

“I suppose so, I wrote it about a bandit king from Bymar. Or maybe I should change it to bandit queen, that’s more true to the story.”

“True to what story?” Jaron asked, his grinning face sinking into a frown.

The tiny slip gave Amarinda’s suspicions even more traction. She remained silent, waiting for Jolly to explain himself.

“The story of- Merry’s coming back!”

“True to what story!?” Jaron repeated, but even he had to be aware of the fact that Jolly was no longer interested.

He got that way when he was drunk, Amarinda knew that much.

"Oh! Captain! The captain’s here too!" Jolly called, waving his hand. "Captain Harlowe's-"

They were gone in the blink of an eye.

Roden didn't impede on Jaron's tendency to cause trouble while disguised, but he did tend to tell people things that he wasn't supposed to.

Specifically Tobias.

They simply couldn't risk being caught.

"I didn't know that your friend was Jolly of Angelmarr," Amarinda said as soon as they were out of the temporary tavern.

Jolly was Bymarian, a native to the city Angelmarr.

He frequented Queen Danika's court.

Rumors followed him.

Rumors that were unfortunately mostly true.

"I didn't know you knew him," Jaron shrugged. "He's a fun bloke to be around."

"I suppose so, he's quite flamboyant."

"All the more reason to enjoy his company."

Amarinda was preparing to explain her distrust for Jolly, when Imogen squeaked in excitement.

Right there, in the middle of a grass arena, was a group of dancers in scarlet suits and headdresses made of ribbon.

They were breathing fire.

So, Amarinda bit her tongue.

She didn't have it in herself to spoil Imogen's obvious delight.

But she'd definitely point the situation out to Jaron later that evening.

The fire breathers swallowed torches, showed them to the crowd after they'd been extinguished, and then opened their mouths to the sky.

Fire leapt into the air.

If it hadn't been for a flash of a navy blue physician's coat, they would've stayed there longer, mesmerized by the fire breathers.

Imogen was still talking about it even after they'd run into other performers doing sill tricks with their pet monkeys.

Queen Danika had a monkey at one point, Amarinda barely remembered anything good about it. All the monkey did was shred fabrics and grab at people.

A little frightening for a young girl.

Tobias nearly caught up to them several times after the fire breathers.

And each time they managed to escape. . .

Until they met their fate at the hands of a toothless old woman.

Oh, Amarinda couldn't resist. She knew that she'd regret her actions the next day, and yet, not even that knowledge would stop her from what she was about to do.

Just an hour ago, Imogen took control of the trio, and dragged both Jaron and Amarinda to a rickety wagon manned by a rickety woman.

She had a single tooth hanging over her cracked lips.

Turned out she had a wicked sense of humor. She later told Amarinda she enjoyed pretending to be a fairytale witch at festivals.

She also confirmed that her trade had gotten her into boiling water before.

Literally.

The wagon was decorated like something out of a fairytale. Gilded cages held shimmering twigs inside, which the rickety woman insisted were fairies when children asked about them. The rickety woman sat in a chair near a cauldron.

A boiling cauldron.

Every so often, the woman would lower a veil over her face, turn her back to the crowd, and lift a large spoon from the cauldron.

She never revealed what she was making. . . Until she deemed the crowd large enough.

The rickety old woman was making the best miniature apple pies Amarinda had ever eaten.

And Amarinda had eaten some very fine pies before.

"I'm doing it," Amarinda said, patting the extra coin purse she brought. "I'm buying a dozen more."

Jaron belched, "Am- Amarinda we've each had at least four. Aren't you- don't you-"

"Feel sick?"

Oh dear.

Their babysitter found them.

Tobias stood with his hands on his hips, obviously trying his best to scowl, "I've been looking everywhere for you three! There's a threat of bandits! Thieves! You could have at least let a guard trail you! All I ask is that- oh dear."

Amarinda hid her smirk as she trailed her fingers through Tobias's thick, dark hair. That would soften him up. She shrugged, "We only wanted to have fun, Tobias."

"It's different when you're left to fend for yourself," Imogen muttered, biting into her fifth apple pie.

"There's no point in having fun if it's not safe," countered Tobias. But the drooling grin he was fighting away was all too revealing.

"Would you feel better if you came with us?" Amarinda reached out to grab Tobias's hand, and rolled her head to the left.

If Jaron was clever enough, he'd seize this opportunity to melt back into the crowd.

“I’d feel better if you came with me,” Tobias mumbled. “Would you, un, would you-?”

“Spend the afternoon with my husband?” Amarinda glanced over her shoulder, and sure enough, Jaron and Imogen had managed to slip away.

Good for them.

Amarinda rattled her coin purse, “Care to get sick from too many apple pies?”

Tobias’s eyes lit up, “You’re asking me to do something foolish.”

“That’s right, I am.”

“I’d gladly eat myself sick from pies with you, Amy.”

“And that’s-,” Amarinda pressed a kiss to Tobias’s still open mouth, “-what every girl wants to hear from her noble love.”

Chapter Text

"It's going to be a nice evening," Jaron insisted, but he knew that a nice evening was a little too much to ask for.

Especially when it involved the Dragon's Keep, the weekend, and a certain captain of the guard who was ready to make a fool of himself.

Maybe this was a bad idea.

Donning a set of rags for a night out on the town.

After all, Jaron and Imogen had their escapade at the festival only last week. At this rate, they'd be abandoning their duties all too regularly, and leaving Tobias with a massive headache that could only be cured by seeing Jaron seated on the throne and far far far away from anything remotely entertaining.

If things went wrong, it was obviously the will of the Saints.

Obviously.

"You say that now," Imogen only shrugged. "I'm almost expecting to see a bar fight. I'll be disappointed if one doesn't happen."

"Are you hoping to see violence?"

"No, I'm just hoping to see you get your arse handed to you for once."

Jaron froze in his tracks, hands on his hips. He pouted as hard as he could, "Imogen, I'd never be foolish enough to get my arse handed to me."

"Uh- huh, you always insist on not being a fool moments before you do something foolish. I know you Jaron."

Unfortunately, she was right, and Jaron knew that.

He wouldn't be able to argue against her point, so instead he kissed the top of her head. Imogen didn't take back what she said, but she still reached for Jaron's hand.

Seemed like she wasn't entirely fed up with him yet.

They could hear laughter from the tavern echoing through the alleyways. People were out arm in arm, hand in hand, and sometimes fist to face. Jaron caught himself grinning. Without a warning, he spun Imogen around, pulled her into an embrace, and pressed a sloppy kiss on her lips.

She squealed, eventually slipping into a giggling mess, "Vagabond!"

"You like it," Jaron insisted, his arm now draped over her shoulders.

"I most certainly did not."

"Yes, you most certainly did."

"Did not!

"Did too!"

"Did not!"

At this rate, he'd only kiss her again. Imogen had to have known that, as each time Jaron leaned in close, she wriggled her way away from him. It didn't take long before they were laughing.

There wasn't any other person Jaron would want to be with, or any other person he'd rather terrorize.

Although Mott was a close second.

Followed by Tobias.

And then followed by Roden.

Truth be told, he did get quite the rise out of picking on his closest friends.

Jaron did his best to kiss Imogen, but she successfully dodged him.

Chaos was threatening to spill out of the Dragon's Keep and into the streets. Laughter rumbled the outside of the tavern. Loud music seemed to be breaking out of the windows.

However, it seemed like there hadn't been any fights.

Yet.

"Into the fray we go," Jaron announced as he pushed open the door for Imogen.

Imogen wrinkled her nose, "Can we go home now?"

"And hurt Roden's feelings? He'd be so upset that we didn't come to see him drain two full barrels of something only the Saints know about."

"I think it's sad that he does that."

"So long as he doesn't vomit on the soldiers, I don't see it as a problem."

"I know, but- I don't know, it just seems like- it seems like he's hurting. This isn't how you get over something that hurts."

No.

No it wasn't how you got over something that brought you pain. It only pushed it away. It only bought you an opportunity to forget everything.

But Jaron had no intention of forcing Roden to stop doing something that eased that hurt.

Eased that painful ache nobody else could see.

Jaron shook his shoulders, determined not to confront his own bitter memories. He gestured to a wall lined with kegs of alcohol, "Do you think they'll have fruit juice for me? You know how I get without my juice."

"I'm sure they'll have a special pitcher full of fresh juice just for you," Imogen teased, reaching for Jaron's hand. "Is that our favorite troubadour I see?"

Sure enough, perched on a table, was Jolly of Angelmarr.

Dressed head to toe in purple and pink, Jolly was a sight for sore eyes. He was waving an ornate lute in the air with one hand, and spilling a drink on his spectators with the other.

"Has anybody seen my drink girl? I need a new drink!" Jolly declared as the last of his tankard's contents spilled out onto the floor.

"Jolly!" Jaron cried, waving at his friend. "You're, ah, you're looking quite well!"

"Oh yes! I feel," he coughed. "I feel amazing! It'd be better if I got myself a new drink. Have you got any, Your Majesty?"

Normally, Jaron would've had to lie about being mistaken for the king despite actually being the king, but almost every customer in the Dragon's Keep was too drunk to even see straight.

"Would it be mean to make him play a song?" Jaron asked innocently. "Try to get him to dance at the same time?"

"Is he actually drunk?" Imogen crossed her arms, uncrossed them, and reached for Jaron's hand again.

"If he can successfully play us a song, then no, he's not drunk. But! If he plays the first few bars and begins to cry, then he's most definitely drunk."

"Get him to play something fun."

Jaron practically had to wave his arms above his head to get Jolly to play a song, which quickly evolved into a bawdy ballad about a young lady and her goat man lover.

Jolly didn't cry while he sang, but he did repeat the song three times in a row. Both Jaron and Imogen agreed that Jolly might not have been entirely sober, but not entirely drunk either.

More and more people poured into the tavern, the atmosphere growing louder and louder as each person stepped in. Imogen led Jaron to the wooden bar protecting a wall of kegs. There they waited for any sign of Tobias and Amarinda.

Finding Roden in this mess would be awful.

"Oh! I see them!" Imogen exclaimed, tugged on Jaron's shirtsleeve.

"Dear Saints I already hate it here," Tobias was gripping Amarinda's hand as if he was going to be swept away in a sea of drunk customers.

Amarinda smiled, "I think it's fun. Though I can't be drinking too much, I'm going to be meeting with one of Queen Danika's ladies about a situation on Idunn Craich."

Idunn Craich, Jaron recognized the name. It was one of the five kingdom states that made up Bymar.

"What kind of situation?" Jaron arched an eyebrow, curious as to what Amarinda would say.

"Two years ago there was an alleged alliance between Idunn Craich's ruling noble house and King Vargan. It was handled by several lords of Queen Danika's court, which shouldn't have happened. Very messy, the lords murdered most of the house, we've been trying to locate anybody who might've survived."

"If you need any help, I'll put the guard up to it."

"Thank you, Jaron," Amrinda nodded. "However, I don't think- I don't think we're going to find anybody. Danika wants to make amends."

"You never know, people tend to survive-"

"You came!" Burst Roden, a sunshine smile painted all over his face. He threw his arms around the nearest person, and ultimately managed to crush Amarinda, Jaron, and Tobias together in a massive embrace.

"How tipsy are you?" Tobias croaked as he tried to wriggle his way free.

"I actually haven't, ah," Roden peeked over his shoulder. "I haven't drank anything. Made a blithering fool of myself so now I have reason to drink myself to oblivion, but that's alright!"

"You're sure you're still sober?"

"Absolutely, which makes my mistake even worse."

A mistake was made?

While Roden was sober?

A devilish grin wormed its way to Jaron's face, "Aren't you going to tell us? I'm awfully curious now. You've managed to get my attention despite the clamor."

Roden's smile grew wider just as his tanned face grew a deep red, "I, ah, I was talking to Jolly-"

"I can already see where your mistake was made. Nobody should ever talk to him when he's not sober."

"Right, well, I, ah, was talking to Jolly and got really, er, excited about speaking to somebody who'd caught my eye."

Jaron didn't think it was possible to look both absolutely elated and completely humiliated at the same time, but Roden somehow managed to pull it off.

"Did they reject you?" Amarinda asked. "I didn't know people rejected you, Roden. I didn’t know you flirted with people either."

"Well I don’t, and, uh, I marched right up to this person, looked them dead in the eye and-," he paused, his childish smile melting into a cringe. "And I said 'it's a wonderful evening'."

"That's not all you said, isn't it?" asked Jaron, though he already knew the answer.

"You're, ah, you're right. I really said 'it's a wonderful night for an evening', and M- this person, sorry, said 'the sky has weather outside'. . . And then told me to piss off. Me. To piss off."

It was hard not to laugh.

Jaron snorted, coughed, and finally cleared his throat, "I'm sorry, you told them it was a nice night for an evening, they then told you that the sky has weather and told you to go away. Not your, ah, not your most romantic moment."

"Barkeep! What's the strongest whatever you have here tonight?" Roden asked, turning all attention away from his failed flirtations.

Tobias, Amarinda, Jaron, and Imogen all shared a glance as Roden proceeded to order five tankards full of something potent and salty.

Thank the Saints they all managed not to laugh.

"Are you going to tell us who the lucky person is who caught your eye and managed to be brave enough to turn you away?" Tobias did his best to duck as a very large man began dancing.

"No, and I'm going to get so drunk I don't remember anything," Roden shot back. "First I'm going to drink these, and then I'm going to drain three kegs of mead. Jaron, put Feall in charge for the next two days, recovery is going to take a while."

"It couldn't have been that bad. . ." muttered Imogen.

"Oh, trust me, it was."

And Roden tilted his head back and drained his entire tankard.

Jaron hid his concern, it wasn't normal for somebody to be able to do that. However, Tobias didn't seem shocked, probably because he'd been the one to deal with Roden's fierce hangovers.

"Are you sure we can't go home now?" Tobias batted his lashes.

"Pouting like that only works for pretty girls, and you're neither of those, so please stop before I have to burn my eyes," Jaron teased. "Let Roden drink his fill, and then we'll go home. I'd like to help Amarinda with her Bymarian situation."

"It'll get messy if more details come to light," Amarinda took a seat near Jaron, her hand on Tobias's back.

"What do you mean?" asked Imogen.

Despite the noise, a wave of uncomfortable quiet rippled through their conversation. Several glances passed between Tobias and Amarinda.

"Bymar is split into five kingdom states, and ruled by separate noble houses. There's several houses, seventeen that are recognized by the crown," Amarinda explained. "Only five rule the kingdom states, which leaves a lot of room for jealousy. Dainka and Norman are technically high queen and high king, what they say goes, and nobody can challenge that unless the seventeen houses can unanimously agree that the policy needs to be changed.

"Three years ago, House Thay ruled Idunn Craich, and there were rumors that King Graer Thay was making a deal with Vargan. Danika and Norman were occupied, so the noble houses took it on themselves to subdue House Thay. The entire family was imprisoned, most of them slaughtered. Danika and Norman were able to prevent further bloodshed, but several members of House Thay are gone. There's no record of their deaths and no bodies anywhere.

"However, there are, ah, rumors, about members of House Thay trying to make their way back to court. Supposedly, Lady Mireldis Thay has been spotted in Carthya. Danika has sent several members of her court to confirm or deny these rumors. Feall and I will be helping, too, but it's very unlikely that anything will-"

"Feall's told me all about-," Roden hiccuped. "Lady Thay. They're coming to collect evidence, not the girl."

"How do you know that?" Amarinda's voice had taken an edge. . . But no reply came from Roden as he drained his third tankard.

Jaron scratched the back of his neck, he'd heard about the situation on Idunn Craich.

But he had no idea how Queen Danika's court members would be able to find one young woman who could be anywhere in the country.

He wondered if Roden’s drunken musings were correct. To him, it seemed more likely that they were coming to collect evidence against House Thay, especially if Feall was involved.

Feall had a love for justice.

It would be difficult to let him return to Bymar, as he’d done much for Drylliad during the last few weeks.

“Here comes Jolly,” Imogen said, jerking her head in the troubadour’s direction.

“Don’t look, don’t look, don’t- Hello again!” Jaron forced himself to smile. He wasn’t in the mood for fun and games anymore.

He wanted to figure out Amarinda’s Bymarian political puzzle.

“Did you make Roden cry?” Jolly’s cheery demeanor instantly faded into hostility.

“I didn’t,” Tobias held up his hands. Mirth sparkled in his eyes as he pointed at Jaron, “But he did.”

“I did not make Roden cry!” Jaron insisted, completely aware of how indignant he sounded.

“I don’t cry!” Roden held up his fifth tankard to the ceiling. “Not about anything!”

Jaron rolled his eyes, continuing his merciless teasing, “Yes you do, you cried about a basket full of kittens abandoned on the curb. You massive baby.”

“I’m not a baby!”

“Yes you are,” Jaron and Amarinda said in unison. They looked at each other in surprise before bursting into laughter.

Jolly reached for Roden’s tankard, who jerked away, sloshing most of the contents onto the ground and onto Jolly’s bright clothing.

“He tried to hit on somebody, it didn’t go well for either of them,” Jaron explained. “Or at least, that’s what it sounds like.”

“Don’t worry, I know,” Jolly once again reached for Roden’s drink. “You’re acting like a child!”

“I am not!” was Roden’s bone rattling reply.

“Are too!”

“Am not!

“Hand Jolly the tankard, Roden, you’re making a mess,” Tobias said firmly.

Jaron coughed to cover his laugh as Roden stared at Tobias with eyes full of betrayal, and then shoved his tankard to Jolly’s outstretched hand.

However, Jolly wasn’t finished. He beckoned for the fifth tankard, “I’ll need that one too.”

“You’re ruining my evening,” grumbled Roden as he handed over the final tankard. “Stiff.”

“Baby.”

“I’m not a baby!”

“You’re going to make him cry!” Jaron snickered, earning a push from Imogen.

He knew very well that he deserved that push.

“I don’t- dear Saints somebody hide me,” Roden said as he tried to duck behind Tobias. “It’s her.”

“Hello Merry,” said Jaron, a series of greetings from everybody else chorusing behind him.

“Hello all,” Merry nodded. “You’ve got quite the faces for a group of friends in a tavern.”

“Roden ruined it for us,” Jaron snipped. This time, he got an elbow to the ribs, “Hey! That hurts! And she knows I’m joking!”

“Did you, ah, did you put him up to that?”

“Put him up to-,” Amarinda began.

Jolly was ready with a response, “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Merry.”

“I think you do know what I’m talking about.”

All eyes shot to Jolly, who squirmed on his feet.

Only a few seconds ticked by before he threw his hands up to surrender, “Alright! Fine! Yes, it was me! Happy?”

Merry frowned, “No. It was mean. Can I talk to you for a moment, Captain Harlowe?”

“I don’t know who that is,” Roden insisted.

However, that didn’t stop Merry. She took him by the elbow, excused herself, and dragged Roden away from the wood bar.

“I told him to speak with Merry. As friends! Don’t glare at me so! He really said ‘Nice night for an evening’,” Jolly snickered, pretending to wipe a tear from his eye. “Saints, he’s so funny.”

“Not the type of prank I’d play, but it was certainly devious,” Jaron was ready to dodge Imogen’s elbow, only to receive a light tap to the back of his head. “What!?”

“It was mean, and now Roden’s embarrassed, you know he was looking forward to tonight,” Imogen scowled.

“I wasn’t about to let his entire evening be ruined.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“I still think it was funny. ‘Nice night for an evening’,” Jolly was the only one laughing.

Imogen inhaled, “There’s a difference between laughing at somebody and laughing with somebody. Roden was obviously mortified and not in the mood.”

“In Roden’s defense, Merry shot back with ‘the sky has weather’, which is equally embarrassing.”

“Merry told him that the sky has weather?” Tobias snorted.

“What idiots,” Jolly smiled. “Anyways, do you want to play a drinking game with me?”

Everybody instantly said no, which then led to everybody laughing.

Jaron glanced over his shoulder, trying to look for Roden and Merry. As much as he would’ve liked to laugh at another form of ‘a nice night for an evening’, he didn’t want to see his friend make an absolute fool of himself.

He could’ve sworn he saw Roden’s blue and gold tunic near the far corner.

And he could’ve sworn he saw somebody get- somebody-

The atmosphere shattered.

Somebody had been thrown out of the tavern’s glass window.

Fighting broke out amongst all of the bar customers, even the ones who'd been friends before the fight broke out. Men were laughing as they turned around and knocked the teeth out of the person nearest to them. Tobias' eyes went wide, almost like a pair of dinner plates were growing out of his head.

"Can we please go now?" Imogen asked, ducking as a tankard came careening towards the wall behind her.

"At this rate," Jaron jumped to his feet, a smile spreading on his face. "At this rate, we're going to have to fight our way out! Roden! Where'd you go?!"

A fist came flying towards Jaron's face, but he launched himself directly at his laughing attacker to keep the blow from hitting one of his friends, or worse, his wife.

It didn't take much for the attacker to throw his hands at somebody else. Jaron decided right then and there that they all needed to leave. He reached out for Imogen's hand, and practically yanked her to her feet.

In a way, dodging punches became a game.

Except in this game, you risked losing your teeth.

Jaron frantically looked for Roden each time he had the chance, ultimately deciding that Roden was just going to have to hold his own this time.

Imogen's safety was the top priority.

Somewhere along the way, Jolly got lost in the crowd. Jaron didn't mind. He had the quiet feeling that this whole bar fight could be pinned on his shoulders.

And he had an even louder feeling that maybe Roden had been the one who caused the fight in the first place.

"Right, any bruises?" Tobias asked the second they stepped out of the Dragon's Keep and into the cold night air.

"I'm clean," Jaron answered, looking Imogen's arms over for any purple bruises.

Amarinda cracked her knuckles, "I could go back in and find Roden if you really wanted me too."

"Roden can handle himself, besides, this will take his mind off of the fact that we mercilessly teased him after he tried to, ah, flirt with Merry," muttered Tobias as he wiped his forehead. "I do hope he's alright, though. He does tend to think very little for his own safety."

"It's both noble and a little dangerous."

"Maybe we should go in after-"

Tobias never got to finish his sentence, as a second man came careening out of the tavern's other unbroken window.

It was hard to tell, at first, but Jaron soon realized that in the middle of the fist fight was a blue and gold tunic.

Sure enough, Roden was holding his own.

And also the one responsible for throwing men out of the window.

"Do we-?" Jaron looked to each of his companions, knowing that they understood what he was asking.

For several moments, nobody spoke. Nobody knew what to say. Tobias coughed, "I think we should just leave him be. You know how much he likes throwing a strong punch after drinking something with enough alcohol to kill a bear."

"I think it's time that we interfered with our friend's habit," Imogen pointed out, her hands on her hips. "It's just not safe."

"He looks like he's-," Jaron moved to the left as a third man came shooting out of another window, "He looks like he's having the time of his life."

The fight ended up lasting a half hour, which wasn't nearly as bad as Jaron was expecting, considering how full the bar had been.

It ended when Jolly, Merry, and Roden all came stumbling out of the Dragon's Keep.

Or really they were swept out by an angry bartender, telling them to come back when the Devils' lair froze over.

Jaron snickered to himself, knowing that Roden was responsible for a large portion of the money the tavern earned. He'd be welcome back in the Dragon's Keep soon enough.

He was bleeding from a cut on his cheek, but the smile on his face meant that whatever emotional turmoil Roden was grappling with had faded. Next to him, Merry's face rivaled the gruesome scowls of cathedral gargoyles.

And then there was Jolly.

Who was just behaving like himself, as always.

"Everything okay?" Jaron asked, arching his eyebrow as he stared at all the members of the trio.

"I'm perfectly fine," answered Roden, seemingly unaware that the cut on his cheek was now bleeding onto the collar of his tunic. He slipped his arm around Merry's shoulder, who instantly weaseled away. "I've actually never been better, do you think we could stay out? I'm really enjoying my-"

"Follow my finger," Tobias said as he dragged his pointer finger in a line. When Roden moved his whole head to follow Tobias's finger, he frowned, "No, with just your eyes, Roden. Your eyes! Not your whole head!"

"I am using my eyes!" Roden insisted as he continued to move his head to see Tobias' finger.

Ah, Jaron recognized that type of injury. It was one you couldn't see.

Roden once again tried to put an arm around Merry's shoulder, and once again, she slipped away, this time taking her place on Jolly's right side.

"I, er, I, uh, I think we need to get you back to the castle, my friend," Jaron set a hand on Roden's shoulder, subtly taking him away from Jolly and Merry. "How are you feeling?"

"Dizzy, but also, ah," Roden looked at Merry, who was grinning at him. . . Until she realized Jaron was looking at her, and then she looked away. That only made Roden smile more, "I feel
dizzy, but also as if I were, um, I can't describe it, I'm sorry. I feel very good for the first time in a- whoa, the ground's tipping."

"His brain's been a little rattled," Tobias explained.

"That doesn't take much, considering that he hasn't got much of a brain up in that fat head of his," Jolly teased, though he did seem genuinely concerned about Roden's well being.

The morning after the bar fight, Tobias did his best to ask Roden about what he remembered about the night before. . .

And to everyone’s relief, he didn’t remember anything.

It was better that way.

Chapter Text

It was late. It was raining.

Two ingredients for a delightfully uneventful evening.

Roden hung his cloak on the wooden pegs by the Dragon's Keep's front door. He did his best to shake the water from his hair without getting water everywhere.

For some reason, the empty tavern made his skin crawl with anxiety.

Usually it was teeming with people making poor choices.

"Hello Dawn!" Roden said with a grin as he took a seat at the wooden countertop.

Dawn, a large woman who served in the Avenian War and the owner of the Dragon's Keep, waved, "Captain! Can't imagine why you're awake at this ungodly hour. Is there anything, or anyone, you want from here?"

Her teasing chuckle made Roden wonder what she was talking about.

Did it have to do with that night he'd drank too much and supposedly threw a man out of a window?

"I'd love a cheese bun, maybe something warm," he plastered a grin on his face. "Long night ahead, it's my turn to patrol the Vaults."

"Ah, the Vaults, I'll be sure to get you anything you need."

"Is, ah, is Merry here?"

A tiny glimmer of hope seeped through Roden's cold hands. It would be nice to see a friend before marching through the Vaults.

Marching directly into Drylliad's most crime ridden sector.

"She went to bed several hours ago, love," Dawn turned to the large wall of kegs. "But I'll tell her you asked-"

"No, no, please don't. It's alright, I, ah, I just wanted to talk to somebody before. . . Y'know. . ."

"Before heading to the Vaults?"

"Yes." It wasn't in Roden to admit that the Vaults made him nervous.

He'd seen frightening things before. He'd fought with seemingly endless waves of soldiers. Held his own against notorious pirates.

But it was easy to block out those people and fulfill a task.

It was another thing to look true evil in the face.

To look true evil in the face and sometimes fail at saving everyone he could.

The Vaults were originally built by one of Carthya's queens in an attempt to give more room to businesses and places to live. Originally, the Vaults were simply called the Queen's Close, and
were made up of several tight alleyways, rooms, and labyrinthine passages.

And they were all underground.

It didn't take very long for the Vaults to fill with the plague, and they were closed to public use.

Despite the danger and sickness, people continued to seek shelter there if they couldn't live anywhere else.

Many people didn't let the threat of death stop them from seeking shelter from a storm.

Roden knew that there'd be more people than usual hiding in the Vaults.

He only hoped that the cold kept criminals hidden in the shadows.

"You'll be alright, Captain, I have full faith in you," Dawn said, setting a steaming hot mug in front of him. She rummaged below the wooden counter, "And there's something I need to give to you."

"Dawn, you shouldn't have," Roden cracked a smile as he sipped at his drink.

Oh! Cider!

Dawn held up a coin attached to a leather string, "This is for you, from a friend. This friend claims it'll keep you safe, though I'm not sure from what. It's kind of small."

"Which friend?"

"You'll have to find out for yourself. Take your cheese bun, love, and the coin. Be safe tonight.”

Roden cracked a grin, and reached for Dawn’s hand over the counter. He pressed a kiss to her calloused fingers, “Thank you, I really appreciate it.”

“Come back any time,” Dawn chuckled. “And don’t get into trouble!”

Her words rang in his head as he stepped out into the rain, cloak on his shoulders and the coin tied to his belt.

Don’t get into trouble!

Roden didn’t actively seek trouble-

Actually, yes, he did actively seek out trouble. He sought out trouble and he liked to punch it in the face.

Although sometimes trouble punched him right back.

Roden patted his mare's neck as they quietly left the warm, safe light pouring out of the Dragon's Keep. The rain that had been lightly drizzling before was now falling much harder. Heavy rain meant a heavy population of people in the Vaults.

Maybe he should've forced somebody to come patrol with him.

No, he didn't have the heart to drag his fellow soldiers from a good night's rest. Besides, he'd taken care of the Vaults on his own before, he was strong enough to do it again.

There wasn't a single person in sight on the streets of Drylliad.

Everybody was either tucked into a warm sleeping space or hiding out of the rain.

It didn't take long before Roden's cloak was completely soaked.

Saints, he hated cloaks. They only ever got in the way.

Several entrances to the Vaults could be found in lower Drylliad, the entrypoints near the castle were sealed up several generations ago. And good thing too, as it wasn't uncommon for the plague to claim victims deep within the undergound labyrinth. . .

Once the streets had been cleared, Roden knew it was time to venture into the Vaults. He tied up his mare within the safety of an inn's stable, rubbed the new coin hanging near his sword, and sludged through the rain.

The first time he'd been in the Vaults was something he'd never forget.

People covered in sores were reaching to him and the six other guards. Children were huddled in corners, having frozen to death in the night. Scalps hung drying from wooden rafters.

As much as the Carthyan guard tried, people always made their way into the Vaults.

They had no place to go.

Hand on his short longsword, Roden squared his shoulders. The rain was falling in heavy blankets now. It almost hid the narrow, pitch black alleyway leading down into the Vaults. The Saints only knew what was awaiting him down there this time around.

He'd brought a lamp with him, tucked under his arm to keep out of the rain. Thank goodness for that.

Stepping into the alleyway, Roden kept his eyes glued to the dark, just in case anybody was thinking about jumping out at him. He lit a match, and dropped it into the lantern's glass shell.

Dull yellow light illuminated the dark alley. Roden held it high above his head, careful to keep it out of harm's way. He scanned the alley as his eyes adjusted to the sudden surge of lantern light.

Nobody was lurking in that front alley.

And who could blame them? Water was practically streaming across the floor. You'd catch your death long before any thieves got around to stealing your scalp right off of your head.

Pushing onwards, Roden set his hand on his sword hilt, taking in every detail that he could.

This entrance was completely cleared.

Another pitch black entrance waited to be patrolled. Roden knew this area well, there were stairs leading into a large room. There was a second entrance there, a large arching tunnel that led out to the lowest portion of Drylliad. Adjacent to this open tunnel was a series of stairs going in different directions.

Sometimes it seemed like those stairs were leading straight down to the hellish Devils' lair.

But Roden knew better. He'd seen the Vaults with both lantern light and spotted daylight pouring in through holes in the ceiling.

He'd faced off with the demons lurking in the Vaults before.

Though it would be a lie to say he wasn't a little nervous.

No matter how hard he tried to be quiet, the sounds of his footsteps echoed through the large room.

And he saw his first person.

"You there," Roden kept his voice even, yet stern. It was something he picked up from Mott. "State your business!"

The person, who'd been disguised as a lump thanks to a massive black cloak, said nothing.

As a precaution, Roden pulled his blade free. He took a step forwards, and repeated his demand.

And still, the lump of a person said nothing.

Dread began to pool in Roden's stomach. He wasn't sure what he'd do if the person was suffering from the plague, only wanting to die away from the eyes of strangers, or if the lumpy mass was a terrified child.

"State. Your. Business."

"Rot. In. Hell!" Roared the figured, bursting into life.

Instantly, Roden recognized his attacker.

True, it had been a few weeks since their first encounter, but Roden couldn't forget the snarling voice that belonged to a short bandit hellbent on attacking Lord Feall, a friend to Carthya's royal court.

Swinging the lamp to safety, Roden held his sword out, prepared to meet the Faola's blade. This one fought with a saber, or at least that's what he remembered. But this time, the Faola was fighting with a short longsword, just like Roden.

This type of fight was easy.

Roden lunged to attack, fully prepared for when the Faola caught and parried his blow.

He was stronger than the Faola attacking him. All he had to do was push hard enough and-

The Faola fighting him dropped the sword, and ducked to avoid the rebound from Roden's blade.

From darkness, a second Faola had appeared, wielding another short longsword and a dagger.

Roden took several steps back, sizing up this second opponent, but no attack came.

The second Faola kicked the first one's rump, and gestured first to the third stairway, and then to Roden, sweeping their hands around their middle.

"Attacking-," Roden began, but the second Faola looked him dead in the face, and spoke.

"It was a misunderstanding," the second Faola said, their voice rough and deep.

"No, it wasn't," insisted Roden, his blade held out. He didn't trust either of them.

The Faola whispered between themselves for several seconds.

Their argument seemed to be coming to an end once the first Faola stood up, and held their fists up, preparing to attack Roden. The second Faola held up his sword.

Great.

Inhaling deeply, Roden sank into a fighting stance, ready to launch himself at the two bandits.

A plan flashed before his eyes. He'd get rid of the unarmed one first by delivering a swift blow to the head with the butt of his sword, that way, he could attack the second armed Faola without any distract-

With a mighty grunt, the second Faola shoved the first towards Roden, sprinting down the third stairwell just as the unarmed Faola tumbled to the ground near Roden's feet.

He, ah, he wasn't expecting that.

As quickly as he could, Roden held the point to the Faola's face, "Take off the hood and mask."

"Please, don't make me do this," the Faola begged, clasping their hands behind their head. "You wouldn't-"

"Take off the mask," ordered Roden.

"Please! My reputation-!"

"You should've thought of your reputation before you turned to a life of banditry."

The Faola scoffed, "Banditry. Your friend, the ambassador's husband, the regent. He knows what we do, you fool."

Never a good idea to call somebody a fool if they have a sword pointed directly at your throat.

"Take off the mask, or I'll be peeling it off of my sword in a few seconds," he said. "One."

"Captain Harlowe! What we do isn't a bad-!"

"Two."

"We only take from-! Devils have you!" The Faola cried, throwing off his hood.

A shock of long, scarlet hair tumbled down the Faola's back. When the mask came off, Roden was only slightly surprised to see a pretty pair of earth green eyes and a slim nose.

The Faola he'd nearly slaughtered those weeks ago was, in fact, a young woman.

Her voice still carried the rasp from before, "You're not going to kill me, are you?"

Roden would've chuckled if he wasn't standing in the Vaults. He kept his sword in hand, "You're playing a dangerous game."

"And you've got your hands full."

"I can still run you through."

That shut the Faola up.

"What's your name?" Roden asked. He was weighing his options in his mind. Tobias's claims about the Faola depicted them as citizens acting outside of the law to help others. . . But Roden knew enough about gangs of bandits.

Everybody was acting for their own interest.

He suspected that the Faola were simply gaining popularity with the public so they'd get away with larger crimes all due to the fact that they would be loved by the working man.

"Ayvar," said the red haired girl, her voice not at all matching her face. "Please sir, please let me go."

"Get up," Roden growled, his sword trained on Ayvar's throat. "Hands behind your back."

It was odd, the fact that Ayvar was doing what she was told. She crossed her wrists, and held her head up high. Roden sheathed his sword. Typically, when facing off with somebody in the Vaults, there weren't any moral questions. He'd disarm the criminals, leave them unconscious, and tie their hands together until reinforcements could come to arrest them.

There were three soldiers stationed at the city walls, all Roden needed to do was march Ayvar out of the tunnel, wave his lantern, and she'd be handled.

A thought crossed his mind.

The price for banditry and murder was high.

No rock solid evidence existed that proved Ayvar's guilt or innocence.

"Tell me what your business was here," Roden ordered. "And be honest. It'll save both of us a lot of hardship."

The sound of dripping water filled the large room. Ayvar was refusing to speak.

Or maybe she was trying to think of a lie.

"Have you thought of an elaborate, misguiding-," began Roden.

There was courage in Ayvar's deep voice, "I only come because one of my own asked me to."

"That's not a good enough reason. Ayvar, in the name of the king, you are placed under arrest."

She didn't put up a fight as Roden took her by the arm, walked out to the tunnel, and waved the lantern over his head.

He bound her hands together, and left her sitting in the dark tunnel.

There was still work to be done in the lower Vaults.

There was still another Faola running rampant in the dark.

Casting one last glance at Ayvar, Roden descended down the third stairwell, hoping he'd see the second Faola.

Each of the three stairways down had recognizable features. Two of them were harmless, they consisted of thriving mushrooms or green mold.

That wasn't the case for this third pathway down.

Dark, asymmetrical streaks decorated the right wall of the stairway. Matching splatters lined the left. Crackling stains were spread across the floor.

This tunnel had a special name: The Murdering Path.

Death was always waiting at the end of this stairway in one form or another.

Sometimes it was a bloodbath.

Sometimes it was a group of diseased corpses.

And sometimes it was a little girl reaching for her dropped doll as she waited for her parents to come save her.

The last image remained on Roden's mind more than he wanted to admit. It haunted his dreams. Reminded him that no matter how hard he tried, there were always people who slipped through the cracks and went unseen until death came for them.

The little girl and her dropped doll kept him trying to look for those who often went underfoot.

Roden steeled himself against what he couldn't see at the base of the Murdering Path. He pressed his back to the wall, drew his sword, and stepped into the second room.

Lantern light swathed the dark area, catching on fallen tables and lost toys. He stepped further into the room, searching for any more people disguised as uninteresting lumps of fabric. Light reflected back at him.

A tiny pool of blood.

Trouble was brewing.

He stood frozen in a defensive stance, listening for any sounds that went against the drumming of the rain and the constant drip of ruined water.

Shuffling.

Timid shuffling.

Roden tiptoed around the edges of the room, trying to locate where the sound came from. There were several more stairways leading deeper still, as well as several other hallways opening up into other rooms.

It took two more turns around the room before he was able to locate the sound of the shuffling, which actually turned out to be sniffling.

Experience taught him to recognize the cloak.

The black fabric barely held together by a few strings and a handful of dark patches belonged to the second Faola.

If the second Faola was hoping to surprise him, he'd be in for a surprise.

There was a slight hissing as a drop of rain splattered onto the lantern's glass casing. The patchwork lump stopped sniffling. Roden gingerly stepped towards it. A tiny sneeze rocked the lump, followed by the tiny sound of tiny hands hitting a tiny face.

"State your business," Roden lowered his sword only slightly, skeptical of a surprise attack. "This is Captain Harlowe, you will not be harmed if you comply."

A set of child fingers peeked out from the top of the patchwork cloak. There was a series of hissing, whispering, and more smacking.

"State your business," he repeated.

No sound came from the cloak.

Somebody coughed behind him.

The second Faola stood with a dagger extended, his cloak missing.

“You used the same trick twice to trap me,” Roden noted, setting the lantern on the ground a few inches from the discarded cloak

The Faola grunted, a discordant sound, “I did no such thing. My colleague was on the lookout for me. She mistook you for somebody else.”

“You were going to stab me in the back.”

“Quite the opposite, actually, I was going to have you stab somebody else-”

“I doubt that.”

“- in the back while that monstrosity was tucked away.” The second Faola gestured to the cloaked lump, lowered his dagger, and held up his hand in surrender. “I told them not to move until you or me came back.”

Roden would have to berate himself for trusting the wrong people later if the Faola left him for dead. He tilted his head to the lump, “What’s hiding under there?”

“A trio of demonic children, we were going to smuggle them out,” the Faola shrugged. “I have nothing to hide, Captain. Keep your heads down, runts”

A tiny child’s hand was barely visible below the hem of the Faola’s cloak. It vanished the second the Faola snapped his order.

“Why?”

It was a simple question.

The Faola shrugged, “Because I like to eat children for breakfast.”

“You’re making jokes in an area known for atrocities similar to what you just described,” Roden pointed out.

“Then I suppose I’ll start making jokes about my dietary habits any day now. Think they’ll- I’m joking, I swear it. You have two choices now. Kill me and get those kids to safety, but let the scum who brought them here roam the Vaults-”

“Or take the children to safety and leave you to remain with villains you probably get along with.”

“I was going to suggest that you help me catch them, actually,” the Faola pressed his hands to his chest. “My heart would break if I had one.”

Once again, Roden was looking at the cloak, it was much easier to make out the tiny shapes of three children trying their best to stay still. He stared at the Faola, once again weighing his options.

Well, actions did speak louder than words.

“We can’t just leave them here,” Roden gestured to the hidden trio. “What if they’re stolen away?”

“Then we’ll-,” the Faola obviously hadn’t thought of that. He balled his hands into fists, “They’ll be fine.”

“What if-”

“We can’t afford to think in what ifs, people like you and I, sir knight.”
“You can’t gamble with an innocent’s life.”

“Then stay here. Listen for screaming, probably curses too, everyone hates me here,” the Faola said as he stepped forward. He patted Roden’s cheek, rubbed his eyes, and slipped back into the shadows.

Unfortunately, the encounter wasn’t the strangest one he’d had with a criminal.

Roden shrugged out of his thick cloak, and settled it on top of the now squirming children, “It’s alright, you don’t need to be scared.”

“I’m not scared,” sniffled one of the children, fiercely pulling aside both cloaks. “I want to go home!”

“Where is your home?” Roden asked, kneeling beside the trio.

Two girls, one boy.

“I don’t- I, ah, it’s by the pigs,” said the first child as she pushed her dirty pale curls from her eyes.

“I don’t have a home,” said the second girl, throwing her arms around Roden. “You smell good.”

“Thank you.”

“I would very much like to have. . .”

Roden did his best to nod his head at the right times as the second little girl struggled to find the word she wanted. If he balanced the three children, he’d be able to take them back up Murder Path and into safety.

They’d be held at the gatehouse for a week to see if any parents came for them. After that, Imogen would assist in helping them find a place to live.

The Faola’s words creeped across his neck.

Let the scum who brought them here roam free. . .

“Tell me your names,” Roden interrupted the second girl, who still hadn’t figured out what she wanted to say.

The tiny girl with white curls poked out her chin, “I’m Brat!”

“My name- my name is Roach,” said the second girl, a smile spreading across her face. “Will you get me a -”

“They call me Beetle,” murmured the little boy.

Roden did his best to remain quiet and patient as he used his cloak as a makeshift pack to carry Brat on his back.

With Beetle on his right hip, and Roach on his left with the lantern in her hand, Roden crept back up Murder Path.

Anxiety trickled through his bones.

Every drip could’ve masked a footstep.

Halfway up Murder Path, Brat sneezed into Roden’s ear.

He froze.

When the coast was clear, he resumed the nerve wracking trek up to that main room.

The Devils must’ve been in a good mood- the large room was empty. Roden stepped out of the dark tunnel, or at least as far as he could while still avoiding the rain. His heart pounded against his ribs as Roach proudly waved the lantern.

Any second now. . .

Any second now, and those three sentinels would be there to take the trio to safety.

Faint shouts and curses snaked their way up the Murder Path. The Faola must’ve found trouble.

Hurry up!

Brat had to have heard the fighting. She buried her snotty face into Roden’s neck, humming as loud and as tuneless as she could.

It was wrong to leave the Faola to fight a large group of thugs.

But Roden refused to leave the trio of children waiting all alone for help.

By the time the three guards arrived and had taken a child in their arms, Roden was certain it was too late. Roach insisted on pressing sloppy kisses all over his face, while Brat blew her nose into his tunic one last time.

He hardly had time to answer any questions the guards had before he was bolting down Murder Path, the lantern swinging all over the place.

What was he thinking? Dashing after a masked bandit?

Roden couldn’t argue for or against assisting the Faola as he tried his best to avoid dark puddles that looked a little too much like hardening blood. The sounds from before were growing quieter and quieter.

The odds were stacked too high against the Faola.

They were both idiots. The Faola by walking off into the Vaults alone, and Roden for following.

Turn after turn, room after room, Roden searched for any sign of a skirmish. Any evidence that there had been a fight in the first place.

His lantern was beginning to flicker.

Saints, what was he going to do without it?

Wait-

What was he going to do without it?

A million reasons why he should turn around and walk away raced through his head. Roden quietly ignored them all as he backtracked out of the room he was in, and set the lantern out in the covered hall. It wouldn’t be long before the lantern flickered.

He held up his fists. Drawing a sword in the dark would only spell trouble, but he still wanted to be ready to throw blows if somebody decided to surprise him the second the lantern’s flame went out.

Soon, Roden was in total darkness.

Irrational fear seeped through his iron will.

He could die down here, all alone. And what if he did? Nobody would find him, except for the hungry rats and hungry pe-

No. The Faola was right.

People like the two of them couldn’t think about what ifs.

Roden held perfectly still as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the Vaults.

He’d wrongly assumed that there wasn’t any light down there.

Faint streaks of yellow light tried their best to penetrate the room, and several streaks managed to do so.

Using these faint patches of light, Roden inched his way into the darkness, listening for any sound of another human being.

There was a pattern to walking deeper into the Vaults.

First, Roden did his best to see if there were any puddles, as those were asking for noise. He then inched his way forward, brushing his foot side to side as he did so. The simple, two-step pattern continued for what seemed like ages.

One day, he’d have to ask Jaron how to get through a room completely undetected.

The streaks of light were growing more and more frequent. Roden swore they were leading to a room with at least a little bit of-

Light.

Chapter Text

"I can’t thank you enough for helping me with the selection,” Imogen said as she walked arm-in-arm with Amarinda, and she knew that Amarinda’s hopes were as high as her own. “It just became so hard to choose.”

“I’m just glad you trusted my judgement,” Amarinda’s dimpled smile shone despite the dark, cloudy evening.

There was something else on Imogen's mind: the fear that maybe, just maybe
Amarinda's judgement was wrong this time.

Two months ago, Amarinda was called away to spend time with her cousin, Crown Princess Eline of Bymar, at a quiet party for friends and family. Tobias went with her, of course, as well as a splendid entourage. They weren't away for too long, perhaps a few weeks, but it was a lonely time for Imogen.

She prided herself on being a good listener. Imogen's attendants loved telling her the latest gossip, but were far too afraid to have a meaningful conversation late into the night.

Though Jaron was her confidant, husband, and best friend, there were some things he, ah, had a different perspective on.

It was difficult without Amarinda's company.

Imogen did her best to remain positive despite growing lonely. She wasn't the loudest queen there had ever been, and she didn't feel comfortable asking for favors.

But Jaron soon caught on to how much Imogen missed Amarinda, and how much Imogen simply couldn't connect with her attendants.

As gently as he could, Jaron suggested finding a new lady-in-waiting to keep Imogen
company, as Amarinda's duties as ambassador to Bymar would soon require her to make frequent trips to all five Bymarian kingdom states in preparation for Princess
Eline's official coronation. He created a list of women he thought would get along with Imogen, and she did the same.

Ultimately, the choice became too difficult.

Each woman would make an excellent companion. However, Imogen realized another very important factor.

She needed a lady-in-waiting who'd get along with Amarinda too.

In the end, Imogen asked Amarinda to make the final choice, and not to tell her who it was until the day she arrived.

And that day had finally come.

"Oh, I do hope she gets here before it rains," said Amarinda as she gestured to the darkening sky. "We haven't had any really frightening storms in a long time, I think today's the day we get a taste of the storming season."

"Do you think that she'd like the rain?" Imogen asked, suddenly realizing how very nervous she was to meet her new lady-in-waiting.

"Absolutely. You two will probably get along very well, I'd be surprised if you didn't."

"It's silly, being this nervous."

"I don't think it's silly at all! You're meeting a brand new person who hasn't been to court in several months and has quite the reputation for her staring, but don't let that intimidate you. You're the queen. People love you."

It was still difficult adjusting to being the highest lady in the land.

After all, nearly five years ago, Imogen was a servant pretending she couldn't speak to avoid her master's eye.

Shifting from being one of the most disliked people in the kitchen to the most admired woman in the kingdom wasn't exactly easy. There were eyes on her almost every moment of every day. Ears listening for her voice and anything they could use against her. Mouths telling flowering lies, spilling with compliments that didn't seem genuine, and biting back harsh comments.

There was always the chance that her new companion would find her too quiet, too dull, and not all that exciting.

After all, that's what some duchesses believed.

"Can I know her name yet?" Imogen was wringing her hands, her eyes glued to the stairs as she and Amarinda glided their way into the great hall.

Amarinda's eyebrows shot up to her hairline, looking dreadfully smug. "Absolutely not, otherwise you'll ruin the surprise. I've given you hints, list them off."

Imogen began thinking of each reason in her head.

"Out loud, Imogen," laughed Amarinda.

"Reputation for staring, her name's on the list Jaron made, she hasn't been here for several months."

"Also that she's very blonde, that's an important one. Any guesses?"

"Promise not to laugh?"

"I swear I won't laugh."

The great hall wasn't nearly as full as it usually was, much to Imogen's relief. Jaron was out on a hunting expedition with Mott, and Tobias had been called away to tend to an ailing old woman. However, there was one brightly dressed troubadour lounging on a chair, strumming a lute while several ladies and lords listened to his ballad.

Oh, Jolly, he always had to have a crowd with him.

It was quite funny, really. Crowds turned him into quite the adventurer. Imogen enjoyed having him around, he'd added several new songs to his repertoire.

Though some of them were a little too sad for Imogen's taste.

"Is it Lady Ayvar- no, she's got ginger hair, sorry about that one," Imogen waved her hand as if trying to shoo away her mistake. "Um, Lady Isla, from Eberstein."

Amarinda smiled, "No, but you're quite close. Guess again."

"Lady Vanesse from the lowlands?"

"Not her, either, and she's not nearly as close of a guess as Lady Isla."

"Lady Helene?"

"Almost, but not quite," Amarinda was still grinning. She thanked the pages who opened the massive oak door leading out to the castle courtyard. "Want to guess again?"

"Not really, I, ah, don't really know who else to name," Imogen confessed.

"Good, it'll make the surprise even more shocking."

The courtyard was filled with people rushing to finish their duties before the storm hit.
Women dashed left and right with their arms full of laundry. Page boys were leading a group of large Bymarian war horses towards the stables. Lord Feall and several soldiers were sorting through a band of thieves.

Imogen swore she recognized one of them.

She narrowed her eyes, and leaned forward in an attempt to see more details.

"One of them looks familiar," Imogen muttered.

"Everyone looks familiar from a distance," said Amarinda. She shrugged her shoulders,
"Roden and Lord Feall have been working really hard to capture some members of the Faola. Feall has told me he suspects that one of them is the notorious Mireldis Thay."

"I've heard that name before."

Amarinda took a deep breath, which meant that she was going to try her best to explain the situation as fast as possible. "Queen Danika sent several investigators to try to find her, but they were expected to arrive several days ago. Jaron sent out several soldiers to find them, but if what Roden said was true about Danika's representatives trying to find evidence against House Thay, I hope they never come."

"Why not?" asked Imogen, trying her best not to sound too eager about learning more from Amarinda.

There was a pause before more words came.

"I knew Mireldis Thay when we were children. We got along, and she was very important to Princess Eline. I don't know everything that happened, as I only learned of
House Thay's strife several months after Tobias and I were married. And I- and I'd rather keep my memories of Mireldis as they were. I want to remember her as my friend, not my enemy."

Words would only make the situation more painful than it needed to be.

Rather than say anything more, Imogen wrapped her arm around Amarinda's waist, giving her a side embrace for a moment.

Her desire to preserve the memory of her friend was something Imogen would do her best to respect.

She wondered why Feall was so convinced that Lady Thay was one of the Faola.

Why he was so concerned with catching her.

She didn't have it within herself to ask Amarinda her thoughts and shatter the peaceful quiet. Imogen knew that she'd receive answers in due time, all that was needed was a little bit of patience.

"I arranged for a larger greeting party," Amarinda said after several moments of silence.
"They're all waiting for my word, I'm just waiting until we get word that our new guest is
in the city, I don't want everyone waiting for too long."

The fear Imogen had felt before was slowly warming up to excitement. "When do you suspect she'll be here?"

"Possibly half of an hour, maybe more than two hours," she was trying her best to be nonchalant, Imogen knew that much.

A fat raindrop hit the cobblestone step below the pair.

"Maybe even more if it begins to rain."

Imogen cracked a smile, "It'll be alright."

"Now you're telling me not to be nervous, wasn't I just telling you the same thing a little while ago?"

Amarinda's laugh was contagious, and Imogen caught herself giggling along as well.

Another rain drop hit the ground.

The courtyard, which had been bustling with laundresses not long before, was devoid of all drying sheets and doublets. No page boys and the massive horses they were leading could be seen.

Only Feall, the soldiers, and the thieves, which Imogen was certain were Faola gang members, remained outside.

Imogen watched silently as Feall separated several of the Faola from the others, and gestured to the underground dungeon. The Faola that hadn't been pointed towards the dungeon were let go.

They practically ran from the soldiers as their brothers in arms were taken away.

Feall stood back, watching as his men and the captured Faola marched out of the courtyard. Once they were out of sight, he sent the remaining soldiers to their posts, and approached Amarinda and Imogen.

"Good evening, your Highness," Feall dipped his head. "Ambassador."

"Lord Feall, it's good to see you here," Amarinda flashed a bright smile.

"Those were Faola, were they not?" asked Imogen, genuinely curious about the thieves going straight to the dungeons. She'd heard much about the Faola and their morally grey ways after they attacked Feall.

"They were indeed," confirmed Feall. "We've been, ah, sifting through the ones we capture. I'd much rather take their leaders captive and coerce them into telling us where their fellow vagabonds are instead of slaughtering each one we find. Captain Harlowe and I are trying to prove that the crown wants justice.

"The Faola we released technically didn't do anything wrong, merely stumbled onto a scene at the wrong time. The ones we arrested, however, were inciting a fight in an alleyway. While that's not a crime as hefty as murder, it's still a disturbance of the peace. They'll spend a week in the dungeon and then be released, hopefully after realizing that the guard doesn't want them dead. They are still people, after all."

"You're a good man, Feall," Imogen smiled, and clasped her hands together. "Have you considered staying here longer?"

Amarinda and Feall exchanged a glance. He cleared his throat, "It depends on if King Oberson wants to stay longer. I don't want to see trouble befall him as he returns home to Bymar."

Ah, King Oberson. The portly king of Dinwallis, one of Bymar's five states. He'd come to rub elbows with Tobias and Amarinda, but recently informed Roden that he was concerned for his safety, and wanted to remain in Carthya.

It probably didn't help that Danika was sending investigators to locate Lady Mireldis Thay.

Tobias later told Imogen that when Mireldis's name was mentioned in Oberson's presence, he went as pale as a freshly cleaned sheet.

There was a silent understanding that until Oberson was certain there was no Mireldis Thay coming to kill him for some random reason, he'd be staying in Drylliad.

Which meant Feall would stay too.

"The suspected storm is making me a little nervous," Amarinda confessed. "There was a woman coming to Drylliad tonight, I fear they were caught up in the rains."

Imogen blinked several times.

What happened?

Oh.

She'd focused on her own thoughts for too long and vanished from the conversation.

Feall noticed. "Glad to have you back, your Majesty."

"I'm so sorry," Imogen felt her cheeks grow a little pink. "Have you heard any word from our guest?"

"I have, actually," Feall was beaming, his smile so warm that it could've rivaled the sun.
"I sent out a squadron of men, I hope the captain doesn't mind. They'll be here-"

A loud clap of thunder shook the sky and-

Several fat raindrops splashed on Imogen.

Then all at once, the heavens opened up.

Rain poured down, instantly soaking Amarinda, Imogen, and Feall. In a fit of giggles and childish shrieks, Amarinda and Imogen sloshed their way back into the castle, painfully aware that their dresses were creating ponds as they stood safe from the storm outside.

Imogen looked up at Amarinda, the kohl lining around her eyes had melted down her face. They both began to laugh as Amarinda giddily wiped around her eyes. Even Feall was chuckling.

“Can you please send word to my friends in the great hall that our guest will be here soon?” Amarinda asked, most of her kohl successfully wiped off.

The page boy who opened the door nodded his head, and dashed off to do as he was told.

"Do you know our guest's name?" Imogen asked suddenly, turning her gaze to Feall.

"I do, as a matter of fact. But I have been sworn to secrecy to preserve the surprise, as Lady Amarinda asked. Would you like me to find one of your attendants so you both can change out of your wet clothing?"

Amarinda seemed to consider his offer, "Scared we'll catch our deaths, Feall?"

"Yes, yes I am."

"You said you heard from our guests," Amarinda crossed her arms, likely to keep out the
cold.

"Do you know when she'll be here?" Imogen asked excitedly, her nervousness had faded the second she realized how close she was to meeting her new lady-in-waiting.

She couldn't deny how ready she was to meet this new guest, couldn't deny that she was definitely anxious to see how the situation would pan out.

Feall ran his hand over his bearded chin, "Very soon."

"But how soon?"

"You're beginning to sound like your husband, your Majesty."

A new wave of giggles overtook Imogen. The thought of her becoming more like Jaron was something she and the rest of the castle feared.

It was bad enough having one Jaron.

But at least one Jaron had a worrying Tobias to keep him in check.

Two Jarons would likely mean the castle's destruction.

Several courtiers began shifting into the large front room, their eyes wide once they saw both Imogen and Amarinda soaked to the bone. None of them said anything.

Except for Jolly, who'd pushed himself to the front.

He pointed at Feall’s soaking tunic, "That's unprofessional, sir."

"So is pointing," Amarinda stuck out her tongue.

"It's good to see you again, Ambassador."

"Are you still frequenting Queen Danika's court?"

"Absolutely I am!" Jolly strummed his lute. "She adores my company."

"I like his company too, he's got numerous songs I absolutely adore," Imogen held her hands up in mocking surrender. She knew that Amarinda wasn't Jolly's biggest fan.

"Thank you, your Majesty, I think I'll write one about-"

"There will be no ballad writing about anybody in this room!" Amarinda insisted, trying to
wring out her braid as she did so. "Plese, Saints, please no ballads."

"Your loss, Ambassador. Besides, I already have one written about sir Feall, it's quite catchy."

Feall arched an eyebrow, "Is it now?"

Imogen took Amarinda by the elbow, and led her away from Jolly and the potential argument.

They’d change from their wet clothes, and hopefully Imogen’s new lady-in-waiting wouldn’t arrive while they were away.

-------------------------------------------------------------

The minutes were ticking by, slowly turning into an hour.

Imogen and Amarinda did their best to sit with the courtiers. Amarinda looked at the large clock imported from Mendenwal seemingly every minute, which only made time slower.

When the clock hit the top of the hour, four of the courtiers excused themselves.

The clock continued ticking.

And then two hours passed. The courtiers and welcoming party vanished, Jolly began to strum a tune about an outlawed princess from the north.

Four hours.

Six hours.

Six hours had passed since the storm hit, and there was no sign of Imogen’s new lady-in-waiting or the squadron of guards Feall had sent to meet them.
“Jolly, can you play us another song?” Imogen asked quietly, rubbing her eyes in a futile attempt at staying awake.

The troubadour yawned, nodded, and strummed his lute, “Is there anything specific you’d like?”

“Something happy.”

“I’ll play The Girl Who Ate Everything because I know that-,” Jolly shot a look at Amarinda, “-somebody hates it.”

“It’s not very kind of you to make that assumption,” Amarinda checked her nails.

Imogen knew she was doing her best to be polite.

Amarinda only ever checked her nails to avoid rolling her eyes and appearing rude.

Jolly inhaled, exhaled, and played the opening chords for the song. He opened his mouth, preparing to sing the first note-

Suddenly, a pounding knock shattered the peaceful air. Jolly jumped, striking a discordant note, which only made Amarinda laugh.

A page burst in through the door. He inhaled deeply, eyes bulging out of his face, bowed, and used his loudest voice for his declaration:

"The Lady Renlyn Karise is missing her right boot!"

Amarinda snorted.

Missing- missing her right boot.

What a way to make an appearance.

Instantly, Imogen thought of a million possibilities of the person her new lady-in-waiting could be. Adventurous, wild, somebody loud and talkative. The type of person that would exhaust Imogen in a matter of minutes.

Dear Saints, she was becoming nervous again.

“Renlyn Karise is here!” Jolly raised his lute in triumph. “Saints, love that woman. She’s charming, absolutely charming!”

"Renlyn Karise?" Imogen made a face, she'd never heard of that name before.

She wasn't even sure if it was on the list of women recommended for the position.

"Come on! Come on, let's go outside and see her," Amarinda said, taking Imogen by the elbow and leading her through the large doors before she could protest.

“I suppose I’ll stay here then!” shouted Jolly.

Imogen held a hand over her head as she and Amarinda took the steps two at a time.

Excitement threatened to knock her back.

The rain was still beating against the stone courtyard, but not with the fury as it had before.
A large white carriage was waiting in the middle of Carthyan soldiers, a tall young woman was talking to one of them.

"Lady Renlyn!" Amarinda cried, waving her hand above her head.

Renlyn Karise was as tall as some of the soldiers guarding her carriage. Her hair, though dripping wet, was the same shade of wheat fields waiting for harvest. She dropped into a deep curtsy as soon as Amarinda and Imogen were finally within conversation distance.

She seemed like a nice person.

"I'm very excited to have you in my household," Imogen said, putting her best smile on her face.

"Not as excited as I am," was Renlyn's reply, and yet, her face was locked in a bored expression.

"Lady Karise, you're soaking wet!" Amarinda noted, gesturing to Renlyn's clothing. "And where has your boot gone!?"

"I hate carriages."

"And shoes too?"

"Yes, or I would've been wearing both."

Amarinda chuckled, though Imogen couldn't deny that she was a little confused. It wasn't until a smirk tugged at Renlyn's mouth that she realized Renlyn wasn't being serious.

It seemed that Lady Renlyn Karise's humor would be dry enough to combat the storm. She was collected and quiet.

They’d all get along very well.

"There are three children waiting in the carriage," Renlyn gestured behind her.

Amarinda didn’t hide her surprise."And where did you pick those up?"

"Just outside the Vaults, they were in the custody of three guards. Lieutenant Alistair informed me that the situation will be taken care of."

"What situation?"

Renlyn avoided the question, "It will be handled. I suspect that I will not be given my boot back, unfortunately."

Something in Renlyn's dry voice made Imogen suspect that there was more to the story.

It also made Imogen suspect that she wouldn't get those story details until she and Renlyn were better friends.

"The children will be taken inside," Amarinda promised. "What are their names?"

"Brat, Beetle, and Roach."

"Are you- are you joking?" Imogen tilted her head.

"I don't joke, your Majesty."

The carriage door clicked open. Out spilled three tiny, and incredibly dirty, children. Two girls, one boy.

A tall man, Lieutenant Alistair, held his cloak over the trio, preventing them from getting wet. Renlyn didn’t look away from the odd group as they made their way up the castle steps and into the warmth waiting inside.

Imogen tilted her head.

She wasn’t against bringing orphans into the castle.

She just wanted to know what brought them there.

"You must be cold," Imogen said, gesturing to Renlyn's clothes and then to the sky.
"We're going to get sick if we don't get into something dry."

"We had a group of people here to welcome you, but I suspect that you'd like to avoid people until you're ready," Amarinda added. "I suspect that they're all distracted anyways. It's very late and we have a popular troubadour in the castle at the moment."

"Which one?" Renlyn asked.

"Jolly of Angelmarr, he's Bymarian and an idiot."

"Ah, I know him, actually. Is he still,um, the one who. . .?"

"Is the favorite of Queen Danika, my aunt? Yes, he is."

“You know Jolly?” asked Imogen, deftly steering both Renlyn and Amarinda to the castle. The rain had become a constant drizzle now.

Renlyn nodded, “I do.”

“I hope he’s slipped off somewhere else, Imogen and I were listening to him play the lute. He’s talented, I’ll give him that, but still an annoyance.”

Imogen rubbed her nose as she hid her chuckle.

The page boy who’d announced Renlyn in her right-boot-less state was sitting on the steps. He jumped to his feet as the three women approached, and held open the door. Renlyn nodded her thanks, but kept her eyes glued straight ahead.

Drylliad castle was humble, yet magnificent. You’d be a fool to call it ugly, but a wise man to call it slightly plain.

“Jaron wanted to secure more money for fixing things rather than hanging full tapestries from every wall,” Imogen explained, suddenly self conscious about a castle.

Self conscious.

About a castle.

To Imogen’s surprise, Renlyn didn’t comment on the plain walls. Instead, she nodded. “I’m very much in debt to the king, he’s been assisting my search for workers.”

“You’re a businesswoman?”

She nodded. “I sell ships, and, ah, other goods.”

“How are things, by the way?” Amarinda asked, carefully lifting her skirts as the three women began to walk up the stairs to Renlyn’s apartments.

Several moments passed before Renlyn spoke. It was obvious that she was more than a little uncomfortable. “Very well. King Aranscot has commissioned several pinnaces. There is a demand for, uh, certain fabrics in Bymar and Gelyn. I take pride in the ships I’ve built, but the real money comes from what I can sell using those ships.”

“You’re quite hated among some of the trade guilds in Bymar, I applaud that.”

“I’m also a woman playing a man’s game.”

“How did you come into business?” Imogen asked, fascinated by Renlyn’s choice to do something like that.

“My elder brother was heir to my father’s trades,” Renlyn frowned. “I was betrothed at a tender age, but my brother died, making me the eldest and therefore the one to inherit all my father owned. I was tired of being passed around like a horse, and taught myself how to run a business.

“Rather than sew myself into new dresses, I requested the bolts of silk that would’ve gone to my gowns and began to sell them. Eventually, I was trading silks and giving my father a run for his money. We chose to work together, rather than run both our companies into the ground, and became much more powerful than before. When my father died, I received it all, and now I’ve proven that I’m more than just pretty teeth.”

There was pride flaming in Renlyn’s eyes, Imogen could practically see the flames leaping out.

Imogen cracked a smile.

Renlyn was a hard worker, they’d get along very well.

“We’re both very excited to have you stay with us at court,” Amarinda said as she dragged both Imogen and Renlyn to the right. “Just in time for summer, too.”

Ideas grew in the back of Imogen’s mind. The thought of running a trading empire on her own was thrilling. “Renlyn, King Oberson will be staying here for the summer, have you considered speaking with him about sending a gift to his wife?”

A rare grin slipped across Renlyn’s face as Amarinda dragged her into the small suite saved specifically for her.

“You’ll be staying here unless Imogen requests your company at night,” Amarinda spread out her arms, showing off the lovely room.

“It’s very, ah, colorful,” Renlyn noted as she stepped inside. “My clothes are being brought up so I can-”

“Nonsense! Imogen and I selected several gowns for you, we can’t have you catching your death before you even start your new position.”

Imogen nodded, and gestured to a single wardrobe pressed up in the corner. “There’s plenty of gowns in there, would you like us to wait outside while you change? Do you need-”

“By the Saints!” Renlyn burst, her sudden outcry causing both Imogen and Amarinda to jump. She’d nearly ran to the wardrobe, and was running her hands all over the tiny details. “Do you have any idea how beautiful this is? Look at these! The figures have faces! Faces! This alone could serve as a dowry!”

The wardrobe was indeed lavish.

Hand carved from dark wood, the wardrobe boasted a scene depicting a beautiful woman accompanied by many lance wielding men. Several other details had been added to the side panels and drawers.

It was odd, thinking about how a piece of furniture could serve as somebody’s dowry.

Renlyn was mumbling to herself, touching every single part of the wardrobe. A wide smile broke across her face, “I’ve been expanding my business to include multiple trades. I’ve got an army of carpenters itching for something. My, my, this is genius! Yes, yes, and then the profits could help me with the blacksmiths. . . Oh, yes.”

“This is how Tobias gets when he finds another physician’s reports,” Amarinda grinned. “It’s wonderful, seeing somebody devoted to what they love.”

“Perhaps we should give Lady Renlyn and the wardrobe some privacy,” Imogen suggested, nodding towards the door. She cleared her throat, “We’ll be right outside!”

If Renlyn heard them, she didn’t say anything, as she’d finally opened the wardrobe and was snooping inside.

As both Imogen and Amarinda left Renlyn to inspect the wardrobe, they exchanged a smile.

Lady Renlyn Karise would make a lovely lady-in-waiting indeed.

Chapter Text

There were four men lounging about in their light filled room. Roden had quietly made his way to a dark corner, watching and waiting for a chance to attack the four men.

They had to be the thugs the Faola foolishly engaged.

Roden strained to hear what they were saying at first, but his struggles were eased the second one of the men retrieved a fat jug from beneath the table.

It didn't take long for them to become visibly intoxicated.

He actually stood a chance against the four of them now that they were like this.

Knowing what he needed to do, Roden leaned forward, hand on his sword. He'd yell as loud as he could, that always intimidated the enemy. After that, he'd disarm the men, place them under arrest, and leave them to be picked up by the three other guards.

Energy was coursing through his battle-hungry hands.

Once on his feet, Roden pressed his back against the wall, watching his targets. Each one was slowly growing more and more drunk. One of them, a mountain of a man with no hair on his head, withdrew a handful of letters from his tunic.

"From Lady Lolan 'erself!" Cried the mountainous man, whose voice was shockingly high pitched.

"Let me read them then," another man said. He was much more alert than the others, Roden was almost convinced that this observant man could see him. "I want to know what I'll be getting for them kids."

"We're losing-," the mountain hiccupped. "We're losing a chunk o'the reward because of that blasted meddler."

"So catch the meddler and turn him in instead of those three snotty runts."

"Where'd we-?"

"Look for the blood, idiot! He got nicked while we fought last! You've failed as a l-"

A stone bounced somewhere deep within the Vaults, causing Roden and the thugs to all jump.

"See? I was right. He came to us," the mountain wriggled his shoulders.

No reply came from the alert man.

"See? He came-"

"Be quiet!"

"I'm the boss!"

The mountain man kept his mouth shut after that.

For several moments, the Vaults were completely silent aside from the constant drip of rain. No new sounds came.

Nothing but silence.

The mountain man turned his attention back to his friends and their jug, and eventually, the alert man sat back down too.

Roden inhaled.

He'd have to attack soon while he still had the element of surprise on his side.

Lifting his sword ever so carefully, Roden fixed his eye on his first target: The alert man. He was the only one with a clear enough head to make deadly decisions. The drunk ones might get discouraged, and even if they didn’t, they weren’t exactly in the best position to fight.

If it weren’t for the tiniest flash of reflected light, Roden would’ve sprung his attack.

The flash was too small to have been noticed by the alert man and his men. Maybe- maybe Roden was seeing things.

Something was waving at him.

Someone was hiding in the corner adjacent to him.

Another flash flitted across the floor of the dark room, and the man responsible for it waved despite the darkness. The Faola from before had returned, this time, with what looked like a woman’s fashionable right boot.

Roden jerked his head towards the men, and gestured to his sword with his free hand. The Faola held up first his free hand, and then held up the boot, imitating a throwing motion at the same time.

Despite not knowing what the Faola had planned, Roden nodded.

He’d have to take a page out of Jaron’s book and make things up as he went.

The Faola shook his shoulders, dropped to a fighting stance, and waited. . .

A woman's right boot flew through the air, nailing the alert man square in the face. The Faola unsheathed his knife and jumped out of his hiding place, completely prepared to apprehend the alert man.

"I told you he came!" The mountainous man laughed, pointing straight at the bristling Faola.

No insults came from the alert man as he hurled himself towards the Faola, his voice rising in a furious yell. The Faola simply stepped out of the way, letting his foe tumble out into the dark tunnel.

"Don't kill him," the Faola said simply, gesturing to the fallen man. "He's all yours, Captain Harlowe."

Roden smirked, "Thank you very much."

He wasn't sure if the Faola heard his thanks, as by then, he'd hurled himself at the mountainous man.

Without hesitating, Roden kicked the alert man in the head, effectively knocking him out. He'd deal with the scumbag later. There was no way he'd let the Faola defeat every thug in that room.

"Hand me the jug!" Roared one of the scrambling thugs. Once he got his hands on said jug, he began swinging it about himself with the accuracy of a blind man in the middle of a cave.

The Faola brought the butt of his sword down on his opponent's head, leaving both the man and the jug to tumble to the ground.

“He mentioned something about-!” Roden began, but he cut his sentence short as one of the men charged forward.

“Letters! I know!” Shouted the Faola as he kicked back at the mountainous man.

It became clear that Roden needed to prioritize his opponents.

Facing down that mountainous man could spell failure for both he and the Faola.

But he knew they both couldn’t fight the mountainous man while worrying about another outsider.

Whirling around himself, Roden brought his elbow down on his attacker’s head, hoping that the action would be enough to bring him down. Unfortunately, it wasn’t. Roden’s attacker stumbled, withdrew a dagger from his belt, and flung himself into their fight with renewed fury.

Roden held his ground.

A sickeningly crunching sound broke through the room; Roden’s attacker had accidentally impaled himself on Roden’s extended sword.

As the man’s corpse slid to the ground, Roden rocketed toward the mountainous man, who’d managed to get his hands locked around the Faola’s throat. The Faola limply kicked around the mountainous man’s middle. In an attempt to avoid Roden’s sword, the mountainous man dropped the Faola, and nearly trampled him to get away.

The Faola rolled to the corner and didn’t move.

The easiest way to take down this mountainous man would be by slicing across his chest, but Roden knew that the attack would likely cut through the letters he needed and possibly spread blood across the papers. He'd have to think of something unusual.

Think, Roden! Think!

Realizing that the mountainous man was easily twice his size was not something Roden enjoyed.

Twice his size.

Jaron! Jaron fought people who were bigger than him all the time!

Oh. Oh no.

Was he really about to ask himself 'what would Jaron do'? Was he really about to do something that usually meant doing something incredibly stupid? Something slippery and sneaky rather than up front and honest?

Roden sheathed his sword as he backed up.

Unfortunately, yes. He was going to ask himself what would Jaron do?

"I'll crush you!" Roared the mountainous man as he reached his great meaty hands out for Roden's throat.

What would Jaron do? What would Jaron do!?

Holding his ground, Roden lifted his fists up to the level of his nose, providing a makeshift shield for his neck. Every pump of his heart sent out the same message.

Why did he sheath his sword!?

An honest sword fight was much easier!

Battling an opponent closer to your size was easier! That was something that should've been easy, Roden was a large young man. For Saints' sake, Jolly of Angelmarr had written a song about Roden's size scaring tiny thieves into turning themselves in without a fight.

Why, oh why, did he choose to engage with this mountainous man?

Thoughts like that weren't what made him captain, they weren't what made him who he was. Roden inhaled deeply, watching as his opponent raced toward him with murder gleaming in hateful eyes. Stopping people who hurt others was what Roden did.

It was why he so actively tried to find trouble and teach it a lesson.

Only a few more steps and those meaty hands of a killer would be around his neck.

Three more steps.

Two steps.

One-

At the very last moment possible, Roden pivoted away, beginning an elaborate pattern of twists and turns to keep himself just out of reach.

"You shouldn't-!" The mountainous man inhaled deeply, obviously out of breath. "You shouldn't be meddling! We're not hurting-!"

No amount of reason could justify whatever the man's intentions were.

Roden risked punching the mountainous man in the throat as hard as he could to reinforce that view. In return, the mountainous man grabbed him by the left arm, and hurled him against the wall like a broken toy.

Blood spurted from his nose.

A groan escaped Roden's lips. He'd feel that one tomorrow.

"I didn't want to have to kill you," scowled the mountainous man. His frown only made him scarier.

"You're breaking-," Roden heaved in a sharp breath. "You're breaking the law, I have to stop you."

Despite Roden's best attempts to get to safety, the mountainous man caught up with him, delivering a sharp kick to his back in the process.

"Let this slide, just once, captain."

"Never."

"My employer would pay you a hefty sum."

Roden swore he saw the Faola's supposedly unconscious body twitch at the sound of a large reward.

There was no way that Roden would engage in this conversation any longer. He hoisted himself to his feet, this time with his sword in his hands, "You're under arrest, sir, I'd recommend that you come with me peacefully."

"I'm not afraid of you!"

Lunging forward, Roden brought his sword over his head in a clean arc, slashing down towards the giant's balled fists. The giant teetered away and barely managed to keep his hands out of the way. Once again, Roden advanced with the same move, sweeping his sword in the opposite direction. Though he didn't manage to cut through the mountainous man's wrists, he did manage to cut the shoulder.

Not a smart move on Roden's part.

He realized this the second that the giant man screamed.

He realized this the moment the giant man grabbed Roden's sword with his bare hands, yanked it out of his grip, and threw it out into the dark hallway.

Roden held up his hands, considering begging for mercy and attacking once again like what Jaron did when losing to a better skilled foe.

The giant pointed his fat, bleeding sausage finger in Roden's face, "You're going to pay!"

"I'm not afraid of you," Roden growled, bringing his fists up as he prepared for the inevitable blows.

"You could've had money! Protection from Lady Lowlin herself! We would've liked you!"

"I'd rather be hated by criminals and fight for my king than be accepted into your cesspool of friends."

The mountainous man yelled in anger. Roden jumped away from the giant fists swinging toward his face and torso.

But the constant dodging was too much.

His footing became more and more unstable as he leapt from corner to corner. Pain shot through his body each time the mountainous man landed a blow. Roden ducked as the mountainous man tried to pummel the side of his head, but he was one step behind. The mountainous man took a jumping kick to Roden's hip, effectively knocking him to the ground.

Seeing the mountainous man's gloating face above him caused a new wave of fury to course through Roden's battered bones.

If it weren't for the boot weighing down on his chest, Roden would've put up more of a fight.

Like the others who'd managed to gain a rare victory over Roden, the mountainous man asked for his last words.

Getting his sternum splintered into his lungs wasn't Roden's ideal way to die.

"I did it. I managed to beat you," the mountainous man gloated.

Roden said nothing. He wondered what he could've done to change the outcome of this fight.

Why hadn't the Faola come to help him?

After all, wasn't it Roden who came to the Faola's aid first?

All people who went around justice were the same. This giant and the Faola-

It dawned on Roden that he hadn't seen the Faola move. The fallen bandit was nowhere in sight.

The mountainous man bent his knees, preparing to jump on Roden's ribcage when a gravelly chuckle caught his attention.

Much like the sculptured Saints in Drylliad's cathedral, the Faola was standing with his arms stretched out, towering above the mountainous man by standing on the table.

Roden rolled his eyes.

"I'm going to have to ask you not to do that," the Faola said, his voice cracking. He coughed in an attempt to cover it up.

"Once I'm done with him, I'll-," the man started, but the Faola interrupted him.

"Good sir, you of all people understand that there's few people in this world with faces like Captain Harlowe's. Murder is a crime, but so is-"

"Shut up! I'm coming for you next!"

Roden's ears turned pink, and he scowled at the Faola.

"Sire, please." If the Faola was trying to make the mountainous man angry, it was working.

Something that probably wouldn't help Roden's case.

The mountainous man growled, and squatted again as he prepared to squish Roden like a bug.

However, the excruciating pain from shattered ribs never came.

Grunts and thuds rocked the room.

The Faola had hurled himself at the mountainous man's tree trunk neck, and was hanging on for dear life as the mountainous man slammed himself and the Faola into several walls.

Roden ignored the aching in his body and once again joined the fray. He drove a sharp punch into the mountainous man's stomach, forcing him to breathe in, something that he couldn't do with the Faola's arms crushing his neck.

Roden hit him again.

Again and again and again until finally, the mountainous man tumbled unconscious onto his back, pinning the Faola to the floor.

The letters that he'd previously boasted about were in his vest pocket. Roden tucked them safely away. He knew about Lady Lowlin and her adoration for beauty.

He knew there were rumors that she bathed in blood to keep her skin from wrinkling.

These letters would prove-

"I- I can't breathe," choked the Faola, his voice once again cracking.

"Saints! I'm so sorry!" Roden cried as he rushed to the Faola's flailing arms. "I won't be able to lift him off you on my own."

"Get him-!"

The Faola couldn't finish his sentence as he began choking down air.

To the best of his ability, Roden lodged his arms under the unconscious giant. Already he could feel the strain of lifting so much weight. "Help me push. Ready? On three. . ."

A feeble nod came from the Faola.

Roden counted aloud, and lifted the man as high as he could, hoping that it was enough to get the Faola room to breathe.

Fire seared through his arms, back, and legs as he held the unconscious man up.

Just a little longer! Just a little-!

The Faola rolled to Roden's feet. With a sigh of relief, he let the man flop back to the ground. All Roden wanted now was to crawl back to his bed and sleep.

There was nothing he could've wanted more than that.

Roden rested his elbows on his knees, heaving in great gulps of air. The Faola, who was still at his feet, rubbed his eyes. "Thank you, sir knight."

"I should be-," Roden gasped. "I should be thanking you for bringing this situation to my attention."

"You have the power to hold the gentry responsible for this. Please ensure that you do."

"The letters will be enough evidence for action to be taken."

"And what will happen to the three runts?"

"They'll be held for a week to see if their parents return, and if not, they'll be handled by the queen. You think it'd be alright to sit down for a few moments?"

The Faola pushed himself up on his elbows, and gestured to the dark tunnel, "You earned it. I'll keep an eye out for any trespassers."

"Just a few-, just a few minutes and then we'll have to tie these brutes up and get out of here," Roden slouched back into one of the chairs the defeated thugs had used.

He was grateful that the Faola didn't say anything more.

And he was grateful when the Faola slipped into the darkness.

Though the Faola was a bandit, Roden didn't have the heart to send the man who'd helped him to the dungeons.

-------------------------------------------------------------

That next morning, Jaron froze Roden's duties, and then told him he'd be trapped in a tower unless he took the day to recuperate.

The rain would've made training miserable and difficult. Roden likely would've ended drills early to keep his men from getting ill.

A blessing in disguise.

Despite not having a cloak, he made his way out of the castle gates and into the nearly empty city streets. Taverns and inns were packed full of people.

Icy anxiety urged him to turn back.

But he didn't.

Roden stifled a groan as he pushed the front door of the Dragon's Keep open. Inside, a fire roared, dripping wet cloaks hung from pegs. People tapped their steaming tankards together. Dawn was scrubbing away at the wooden bar.

"Let the captain sit there! You're not dead!" Dawn smiled as she shooed another patron away from his bar stool.

Sheepishly, Roden gestured to the seat, explaining to the patron that since he was there first, it was his. "I suppose not, but I did have a few more bruises than I wanted."

"Anything I can get for you?"

"Is Merry or Jolly here?" Asked Roden, almost embarrassed to admit that he was bored and didn't want to be alone.

Jaron, Imogen, Mott, Amarinda, Tobias, as well as his father weren't able to use rain as an excuse for stopping their work. Roden didn't dare disturb them, especially since Imogen was training a new lady-in-waiting and Amarinda and Harlowe were trying to meet with a handful of Bymarian representatives.

Dawn called for one of the barmaids, asking her if she’d seen Jolly.

Apparently, he’d been staying at the castle, intent on wooing Imogen’s new lady-in-waiting.

That would only end in tears for both parties.

Roden had been present for many of Jolly’s fits over how he wished he could write a song for each one of his favorites. He’d gotten quite close to that the last time Roden heard.

Merry was balancing a bucket of water in her hand, a mug in another, and a tray on her head. Without thinking, Roden abandoned Dawn at the wooden bar, and took both the bucket and the tray from her head.

Saints, that simple action made his sore arms scream with fire.

“Morning, Captain Harlowe,” Merry smiled. She gestured to the tray, “I can take that, you shouldn’t-”

“I want to help you, Merry. I can carry a bucket and a tray.”

Her gaze fixated on the dark bruise encompassing Roden’s eye. Merry’s frown almost made Roden feel- it almost-

No, it did make him feel embarrassed. He felt stupid for sporting that bruise.

“Let me drop this off and then I’ll get you something for your eye. It won’t even smell, how nice is that?” She spun on her heels, having plucked the tray from Roden’s hands and dropped off the contents before he realized what she’d said.

Despite protesting Roden’s efforts to help her, Merry had no problem shoving the water bucket into the arms of another barmaid. She announced that it was her turn to eat lunch, took Roden by the wrist, and dragged him to the back room.

He was surprised at the room’s neatness. In Roden’s experience, the back room of a tavern had no windows, moldy food, and discard clothing.

It was obvious that the barmaids lived back here. The shutters had been left open despite the rain, but somebody had cleared the area by the window and covered the space with a cloth. Water dripped over the window sill, but aside from a fading puddle, kept most of the water out while letting the light in. A tiny fire flickered in the corner.

A shelf stored five boxes, one for each girl. Old tankards housed a variety of plants. Sleeping mats were stacked on top of each other.

There was a sense of intimacy that came from being in the room. This place was where Merry kept her few belongings.

She’d brought him into the private place she shared with her fellow barmaids.

Merry reached for one of the boxes, and withdrew a vial of what looked like dirt. She uncorked the bottle with an impressive pop. “It’s mallow root, one of the girls gets a rise out of watching her favorites fight for her. Lots of bruises. Don’t worry, though, I’m not going to encourage you to get your face punched in once the bruising fades.”

“I’d hope not, getting bruises is quite painful,” Roden reasoned, watching as Merry set the vial in a metal pot he assumed to be filled with water.

“Where’d you get, ah,” Merry leaned back against the fireplace, and gestured to her eye. “Where’d you get the bruise?”

He hoped his ears weren’t turning pink.

“Take a guess, first.”

“Hm, let’s see. I think, no. I know where you got it from. It was raining last night, raining wildly enough that it challenged the ocean. The fish from the sea swam through the air to get a glimpse at Carthya, I’m sure of it. They were bored and wanted change.”

Roden caught himself nodding at the joke, “Yes, yes, you’re on the right track. Let’s see if you can guess what happened next.”

With a laugh Merry threw her hands up, wiggling her fingers as she brought her hands down, demonstrating the ferocity of the rain, “The fish aren’t used to Carthyan streets, you see, so they got very confused because they’re Avenian. One fish was trying his very best to obey the rules, but it was so dark he couldn’t see anything. . . And he headbutted your eye! Don’t worry, he’s sorry though.”

“It was a misunderstanding, I just hope all of the fish managed to make it home on time for breakfast.”

“I’m sorry about your eye too.”

Her teasing grin seemed to be fighting off a frown.

He tried his best to smile. “At least I still have it.”

“Do you mind telling me what really happened?” Merry asked as she retrieved the vial and the water. An earthy smell wafted through the room as Merry mixed the mallow route with water. She looked at him expectantly from time to time.

“I, ah, I was patrolling the Vaults last night. Alone. For some reason I foolishly thought that it wouldn’t be difficult, but there was trouble,” Roden looked away. He didn’t like telling her this, and yet, he was soon explaining the entire situation.

Merry listened intently.

Roden rubbed the back of his neck as he finished recounting the events from the previous night. “Lost my sword, but I managed to solve the problem though, so I suppose that’s all that matters.”

A scowl crossed Merry’s face, “You got hurt. That matters too. And you lost your sword.”

“It’s replaceable.”

“You still liked it.”

Well, that was true. There were a few nicks in the blade that told stories, but Roden could just put new nicks in a new sword.

“Be safer, Captain Harlowe, when you’re on patrol,” Merry crossed her arms. Her eyebrows had furrowed together. “There are some things you can’t- some things you can’t walk away from. And the Vaults-”

“Are dangerous, I know.” He rubbed the back of his neck.

“Don’t be a fool when dealing with the people who hunt down there. They’d take too much joy in putting your head on a pike.”

“My safety isn’t as important as protecting those who can’t save-”

“Yes it is! Because if you’re not there to-,” Merry pinched the bridge of her nose. “You’re my friend, and I care about you. The people love you, Captain, they feel safe because of you. Just- just don’t be alone, next time, please.”

But he hadn’t been alone, he had the Faola.

Roden nodded and remained silent for only a moment, watching as Merry switched from rubbing her wrists to holding her left earlobe. “Thank you, Merry, and I’m sorry.”

She tried to smile, “I should apologize for the lecture.”

“It’s not the worst I’ve ever received.”

“Do you have any tips on how I can achieve worst lecturer status?”

“Unfortunately, Tobias will always hold that position, it’s non challengeable.”

Merry’s slight smile widened. “Then I’ll try to be your supporter instead.”

“I wouldn’t mind that.”

He wasn’t paying attention. Merry had stepped towards him, and rested the back of her hand on his forehead. “No fever, that’s good! Hold still, this is going to feel odd.”

It was nearly impossible not to squirm as Merry gently applied the poultice to the bruise on his eye.

It was nearly impossible not to lean into her cool hand on his cheek.

“Do you think the fish will come back?” Merry wiped her hands on her apron.

Her cool, callused hands.

Was his smile alright?

Was that allowed?

Roden once again rubbed the back of his neck. “I hope so, I need to apologize to the fish for being in his way.”

“I’m sure the fish understands, you could always get one from the river and tell it to tell the fish you bumped into that you’re sorry. Although I’d advise you to take caution, river fish are cranky.”

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

Merry patted Roden’s face, and walked away.

He knew he’d replay the fish story in his head, and he ran his thumb over the coin hanging from his belt

Dawn gave it to him before he’d gone to the Vaults. She’d said it was from a friend. It was a keepsake. A gift.

The coin’s face bore the outline of a fish.

Chapter Text

Jaron drummed his fingers against his right leg.

The leg he'd broken.

Sometimes he touched it to make sure that it was still healed. Even though it had been years since he'd gotten the injury, he still had trouble realizing that he was alright.

He wasn't broken.

Lord Feall and King Oberson were seated in front of him, separated by Jaron's large desk. Both men were silent. Both were unable to look at Jaron for very long.

In a way, Jaron enjoyed watching them squirm, they'd crossed a line by not telling him about Queen Danika's missing investigators sooner.

Was this how Mott felt each time Jaron did something he wasn't supposed to and got himself caught?

"Your Majesty, we-," Oberson began, but he shook his head. "I'm sorry."

"We'll discuss the situation when the ambassador arrives," said Jaron.

However, Feall didn't agree with Jaron's declaration, it seemed. "If I must be honest, we don't even know the situation anymore."

"Lady Amarinda does, and we'll wait for her to come before we make any assumptions, Lord Feall. I'm a little disappointed, I thought we were friendly enough to discuss political matters."

Feall frowned, and didn't respond.

Boredom was turning Jaron's feet to stone. He hated being bored. There was too much to do and too much to see.

And it was raining still.

He promised Fink they'd go out and hunt for frogs to terrorize Roden with.

The door to Jaron's study creaked open, and in walked Amarinda in a wide-necked blue gown. Her hair was strung up in a golden net. There wasn't any sign of a frown on her face. She dipped her head in greeting when Jaron, Feall, and Oberson stood up.

"My lords," she smiled. "I've brought several papers with me if you'd much rather read my words rather than listen to what I have to say."

"Please, start from the beginning. Reading wastes time," Jaron waved his hand in a dismissing motion. He was joking, of course.

Oberson shrunk in his seat with his head in his hands, but aside from his posture, didn't voice any complaint about listening to Amarinda's debrief.

There were some people who could dominate their foes on the battlefield. Others could crush their enemies without shedding a drop of blood. They could outwit their opponents with words.

Amarinda was a battle master when it came to using words for weapons. She never degraded her opponents with crude words. Never compared people to dehumanizing objects. She recognized that while people didn't agree with her, they were still human beings.

This was how she guided her foes into a corner, their only option being to take her hand and join her cause.

Her goal was not to destroy. Her goal was to create, that's what Tobias claimed.

And he was right.

Amarinda created gateways for better ideals.

Jaron caught himself grinning as he prepared for what Amarinda had to say.

She clasped her hands behind her back. "Gentlemen, we share a home country. One we take pride in. We've given many privileges to those who prove themselves to be just servants of society, but unfortunately, there was an abuse of power several years ago. I know you are aware of what happened on Idunn Craich to Noble House Thay. Rumors were sparked and an entire family was executed without a proper trial.

"Though Their Majesties Queen Danika and King Norman don't condone chasing every rumor they hear, they've made an exception. They were informed that Mireldis Thay, who would've been a child during her house's execution, managed to escape into Carthya. Many of the most skilled researchers and investigators were sent to Carthya to confirm these rumors. Their goal was to find evidence supporting Thay's innocence, and bring her home.They were stopped on their way here for several days, and during that time, I was informed that you King Oberson, went out of your way to visit them without informing the Carthyan Crown that they'd arrived," Amarinda held her head high, almost challenging Oberson to deny her claims.

He didn't, not couldn't he.

Many people had seen him ride out to meet with Danika's representatives.

A heavy pause hung over the air. Both Jaron and Amarinda were waiting for either men to try to deny her claims.

When they didn't speak, Jaron nodded. It was his turn to continue the conversation.

"Lord Feall, I was told by my captain of the guard that the investigators who were sent here were, in actuality, trying to find evidence against Thay, and that you were promoting the search in defiance of Queen Danika's orders, is this true?" Jaron kept his gaze steady, looking for any flaws in Feall's face that would betray him.

Another heavy pause.

Feall didn't squirm, and he looked at Jaron with a fierce, burning loyalty in his eyes. "King Jaron, I did request that the investigators search for evidence against Thay as well."

He fell silent.

Probably waiting for Jaron to condemn him.

However, Jaron was intrigued. He appreciated Feall's honesty. It was something that didn't come often within circles of power. Jaron motioned for Feall to continue.

"I felt a duty to ensure justice," Feall remained stoic. "While I do believe that Thay is innocent, I don't agree with only playing one side. Without considering if House Thay was really guilty, it is possible that Queen Danika's quest for reparations will bring disaster upon Bymar. Thay would likely take revenge, and as a servant to my country and to yours, I will not allow that to happen."

Amarinda's face darkened, but only for a moment. If Jaron hadn't known her so well, he would've missed her momentary weakness.

Though he wanted to support his friend, Jaron couldn't deny that Feall had a perfectly good point.

People weren't black and white.

Too much mystery shrouded what happened with House Thay.

"Do you have any reason to believe that Thay would cause harm?" asked Jaron as he tapped his chin.

Perhaps he should grow a small beard. People might take him more seriously if he stroked his beard each time he was about to say something. Many regents tried to do that, usually it was right before they did their best to be an advisor to Jaron.

If you were going to act the part, you needed to look the part.

To Jaron's surprise, it was Oberson who answered the question, and not Feall. The portly king withdrew a letter from within his coat. "The seal belongs to Thay, and you- and you can read what she wrote yourself. It was sent to me, but it- but it is clearly directed at Lord Feall."

Jaron beckoned for the letter.

The words had been written in jet black ink, and the paper was much cleaner than Jaron would've expected. The curling letters obviously belonged to a woman.

Several words had been misspelled:

King Obrson, I understand you've travelled with lord Feall. you know how much he owes me, and I reqest that you give him to me. if you comply, I promise I wont bother you again. please understand my perspective on this, you know me, sir, you know my family

So, Feall did indeed have a good reason to think that Thay was guilty.

"What would you do with Thay if you found her?" Amarinda kept a calm demeanor.

"I would return her to Queen Danika," Feall explained "Unless, however, she attacks me outright. In which case I would have jurisdiction to decide her fate. An eye for an eye."

"Those laws may work in Bymar, but that's not how we do things here."

"Then, by all means, my lady, I would try to go through with Carthya's judicial process."

Unlike other countries, Jaron didn't enjoy upholding the notion that for every crime committed, you could commit the same in return. Instead, he'd tried to emulate Mendenwal's way of enforcing justice: a vote by a body of people. Typically, two options were given, usually suggested by those who'd been the victim of the crime and the other given by the king.

Death penalties for crimes had to be completely unanimous.

"Do you think that Thay is trying to attack you still?" Amarinda asked, her hands clasped behind her back once again.

Both Feall and Oberson nodded.

"Which explains why he's looking for the Faola," nodded Jaron.

"Captain Harlowe informed me that the Faola only began traipsing through Carthya a few days before King Oberson and I arrived."

"This doesn't excuse the fact that you didn't tell us that you lied to me and Lady Amarinda about Queen Danika's representatives."

"And I humbly apologize for that," Feall held his hand over his heart. "If there is a way for me to prove my regret, tell me, and I will do so."

If he and Feall had been better friends, Jaron would've made a joke about the only way to prove his loyalty was by cleaning Jaron's feet, but he doubted the offer would go over well.

Jaron looked to Amarinda, wondering if she had anything in mind.

She only frowned ever so slightly.

There were many ways that Jaron could force Feall to prove his loyalty. Cruel and humiliating ways. Feall had to have known that. He had to have known the depth of his words.

He'd quite literally given Jaron power over him.

But Jaron didn't enjoy watching people endure humiliation of any sorts. He didn't think that proving loyalty should come at the expense of anyone's dignity.

A clever idea crossed Jaron's mind.

"I'd like you to continue helping Captain Harlowe in patrolling the streets of Drylliad," began Jaron, carefully masking his cleverness. "But you must leave capturing the Faola to him, as well as my friend, Mott. You must trust us to take care of the situation, and that's how I'll know that I can continue to trust you."

Feall inhaled deeply, his brows furrowing together. "Sir, I can't, what you-. No, I mean yes. I will do as you ask, your Majesty."

"Take good care to tread lightly, Lord Feall, this test also represents King Oberson."

"What?" King Oberson burst, his chubby cheeks jiggling with his ferocious outcry. "You can't do this! I need Feall to protect me!"

"You have all of Carthya's guards to keep you safe, as well as your own," Amarinda pointed out.

Several more spluttering protests escaped through Oberson's plump mouth, but eventually, he realized that no amount of begging would get Jaron to change his mind.

A victory, in a way.

Jaron was getting another capable military leader to ensure safety in his city, he'd done his best to uphold justice, and he managed to gain a better understanding about the Thay dilemma.

Unfortunately, however, he also recognized that he probably wouldn't ever understand what happened on Idunn Craich.

But perhaps Avenia's king, Kippenger, might know a little bit.

He hadn't been to Avenia in ages, and was overdue for a visit to check in on the reforming nation. Jaron made a mental note to suggest a diplomatic mission to Sparling.

Everybody could use a little change of scenery.

"Is there anything else you'd like me to do, your majesty?" Feall asked, sitting as tall as he could in his chair.

"Yes, I'd quite like it if you gave me your desserts as well. Especially the fancier ones with the tiny decorations." Jaron frowned when Amarinda snorted, as he was being completely serious.

A tiny smile flickered across Feall's face. "If that is what you wish, your Majesty."

"It is what I wish, actually."

"Then I solemnly swear to do all that I can to ensure that your wish is fulfilled. When would you like me to begin patrolling the streets? Would you prefer me to ask Captain Harlowe my questions, or would you like me to ask you?"

Ah, Jaron hadn't thought of any questions that might need answering.

"Go to Captain Harlowe," he said. "And if Captain Harlowe can't answer them, bring your questions to me. Are we clear?”

“Yes sir.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Several days ago, Imogen’s new lady-in-waiting, Renlyn Karise, pointed out just how bland the great hall was. Of course, Jaron had taken down and sold many decorations on purpose, but Lady Renlyn’s various attempts to sell him exquisite imported decor were slowly growing on him.

No, he needed to use the royal purse to better the lives of his subjects first.

Beautification could come later.

When he settled into his throne and allowed for his first subject to come forward, Jaron fooled himself into thinking that court would be smooth and quick.

However, as he heard his forty-ninth claim about chickens, he realized that court was going to drag on into the next decade.

It was then that Jaron began wondering if he should heed Renlyn’s advice and have her decorate the great hall.

Maybe he’d have something more interesting to look at than whitewashed stone walls.

Jaron tapped his chin as he listened to complaint after complaint after complaint. He did his best to listen. Did his best to be a good king, but his patience was running out.

“We have never had a dispute between property before,” said a man from outside the city walls. He was holding a chicken, and pointing at the other villager beside him ever so often. “Always got along, me an’ him, we never did fight. Respected his property, I did, an’ he respected mine. But one day a chicken wandered through both of our yards-”

The chicken holding villager’s friend cut in. “A chicken wandered through both a’ our yards an’ then laid an egg on the line between our two properties!”

“We didn’t really worry about it because we’ve both got our chickens. It wasn’t really worth our time.”

“And then the egg hatched, it did! An’ now we don’t know what to do wif it! It’s a good layer, we’ve been tradin’ off every couple a days, but that just doesn’t cut it! We need you to decide for us!” Finished the second villager, vehemently pointing at the chicken tucked under the first villager’s arm.

“Well, I suppose that answers an age old question. What came first, the chicken, or the egg?” Jaron mused, buying himself time through a joke.

Both villagers frowned.

By the Saints, he didn’t like explaining jokes, humor always lost when it needed to be explained.

"There's a riddle people tend to ask when they want to annoy somebody," Jaron explained, sitting forwards in his throne. "They ask what came first, the chicken? Or the egg? And in this case, it was the chicken who came first. Actually, I suppose even that chicken came from an egg. What a conundrum."

"But who gets the chicken?" Asked the second villager with a frown.

"Who cares for it more?"

Both men raised their hands, trying to jostle each other out of the way. The second villager raised his hand to smack the first villager across the back of his bald head.

The first villager only tucked the chicken into his chest and ducked.

No blows were given, the second villager wasn't stupid enough to start a fight in the throne room.

"I have a proposition," said Jaron. He knew it didn't really matter, as he was the king, but he tried to involve his subjects in decision making as much as he possibly could.

"We're listening, your Majesty." The second villager bowed until his nose brushed his boots.

On the other hand, the first villager only bowed as far as he could without risking dropping the chicken.

A slight smirk crossed Jaron's face. "How many eggs does the chicken lay each day?"

"One, like the other chickens," the second villager nodded. "I checked every morning while I housed the chicken."

"Actually she lays one egg on the first day of the week, one on the second day, but she lays two on the third day if she is fed scraps from the table instead a grain," the first villager said proudly, holding the fat hen up for everyone to see.

The hen gave a tiny cluck.

"It's worse than I thought," Jaron muttered, wishing he had Mott beside him to joke with.

"You- you haven't decided who gets the chicken?" The first villager stuttered. "But-"

"He's the king, you fool, he can take as much time as he wants."

Jaron tilted his head at the first villager, who was nervously petting the chicken he cradled.

He wanted to smile with somebody. Wanted to smile about the fact that somebody loved their chicken so much that they knew how many eggs she laid every day.

If he were a cruel king, Jaron would've called for the hen to go to the kitchens, only to declare that he wasn't being serious and give the hen back to her rightful owner.

But over time, he'd learned that some tricks and pranks weren't truly funny.

"I know what's best in this situation," Jaron declared, waving the two villagers away and motioning for the next petitioner to come forward. "The man holding the chicken the same way he'd hold his newborn son gets to give her a permanent home."

He ignored the complaints from the second villager as they were escorted out of the great hall.

The next petitioner was a young man, requesting that his father be taken out of debtor's prison. Jaron, who was prepared to fight with nobles over situations with people in debt, agreed on the premise that the young man return to inform them if there was another threat from debt-collectors.

Ah, Jaron did get quite the rise out of showing kindness when the nobles had none.

Court went much quicker after that. As he thought of the first villager happily carrying his hen home, Jaron grinned.

How somebody could love a chicken so much, he didn't know.

Late into the afternoon, Harlowe made his way into the great hall, much to Jaron's relief.

He stood and clasped Harlowe's weathered hand, unashamed of how big his smile had grown. "I'm hoping you came to relieve me of my duties."

"I have, actually," Harlowe said with a grin. "Today was much busier than anybody expected, and I didn't think it quite fair to keep you cooped up inside."

"On the contrary, I didn't mind being held up here for once. It's raining with enough fury to challenge the Devils."

"Ah, but you won't let that stop you from what you wish to do with your afternoon, I hope," chuckled Harlowe, his blue eyes sparkling with a glimmer of content.

"Absolutely not." Jaron couldn't hide his smile. "My bones are aching from sitting."

"I wish I could tell you that aching goes away, but it only gets worse. No, no, I tease."

Jaron couldn't resist. He threw his arms around Harlowe's neck in a sloppy embrace. "Thank you, thank you for coming to fill in."

Harlowe patted Jaron's shoulder. "As prime regent, it's my obligation to ensure that the king can handle his duties. And as someone who cares about you, it's my obligation to make sure you don't run yourself into the ground."

It was still odd. . .

Having multiple people care about his well being.

"I really appreciate it, Harlowe, and I mean it."

"Then go, my king." That sparkling contentment in Harlowe's eyes rivaled the lazy Roving River. "Your friends await you."

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Was it wrong to take pride in what he’d managed to set up?

It had taken almost all afternoon, and required the help from not only Roden and Tobias, but from Jolly, Lady Renlyn, and Mott too.

In the end, it was perfect.

For several weeks, Jaron had been meaning to take Imogen away from the hustle and bustle of castle life. Although they weren’t in a position to leave for more than a day or two, they could manage to spare a night away from their duties.

And he’d finally done it.

“Don’t tell Imogen anything,” Jaron said firmly, trying his best to stare down Lady Renlyn Karise as they stood in one of the castle hallways.

It wasn’t easy.

Lady Renlyn was taller than him by a good inch.

“I promise I won’t tell,” Renlyn crossed her arms. “But be thankful, the queen isn’t always the type to enjoy a surprise.”

“See, people say that, but then get excited when they’re surprised.”

Renlyn only stared in response.

“Mad that I got you cornered?” No, no answer from that either. Jaron waved his hands in defeat. “You’re dismissed, I don’t need you and your disapproval.”

“Disapproval?” Renlyn arched an eyebrow.

“Yes! Disapproval, you’re not exactly subtle about it, Lady Karise.”

“Good, it means I’ve finally got my point across.”

“Aren’t you in a feisty mood today?” Jaron snickered, putting his hands on his hips.

He wasn't sure what kind of reaction he wanted from Renlyn. She was remaining completely placid. “This is how I always behave, my king.”

“Is not, you’re nicer to me.”

“On the contrary, I think I’m being nicer to you now.”

He’d known the Karises before.

From his days when his family was still alive.

Jaron hadn’t been the closest to Renlyn when they were children, it’s true. She’d rather mix various ingredients together to eliminate her least favorite dolls while Jaron would rather track dirt all over the place.

In a way, it also reflected the way they handled situations at court.

Renlyn wasn’t afraid to do what needed to be done. Already the notorious gossipers of court were spreading their opinions on Renlyn’s ambition. She had but one fear: Recognition. Most of her opponents slipped away in the night, never to disturb her again.

Jaron would much rather stay away from gossipers and the like.

Made things less messy.

Unfortunately, Jaron didn’t get his retort spoken in time, as Renlyn walked away, taking the final say with her as she went to Imogen’s study.

Their exchange couldn’t bring Jaron down from the excitement searing through his veins.

Each step he took made him feel light, yet heavy. Time couldn’t pass fast enough. He was beginning to pace. To the wall. Back to where he’d stood. To the wall again. Back to where he stood. The pattern continued for what seemed like ages, but Jaron knew better than that.

The clock stationed by the door, a huge monster of wood and metal, chimed.

It was better that a few minutes passed rather than no minutes at all, Jaron reasoned.

And then Imogen quietly stepped into the room.

Dressed in a pale blue blouse with matching split skirts, Imogen couldn’t hide her smile. For a moment, Jaron suspected that Renlyn spilled the secret surprise waiting just outside the castle walls.

He offered an arm out to Imogen, escorting her through the great hall and out into the courtyard.

“I really hope there’s no crocodiles involved,” Imogen muttered as Jaron helped her into Mystic’s saddle.

Jaron cringed as comically as he could, and then swung into place right behind Imogen. “Well, ah, guess you’re not going to like what I have in store.”

Imogen’s laugh was worth all of the hassle Jaron had put into his special surprise.

The sun was barely dipping down below the horizon, throwing golden rays of light into the crisp air. A slight shimmer appeared on Imogen’s cheeks. Jaron pressed a kiss to her temple, her hair, her chin, anywhere he could reach.

She was giggling when she pushed his face away.

“Let me kiss you, silly girl,” Jaron hummed, only to once again be pushed away.

“Absolutely not, it’s embarrassing!”

“I want the entire kingdom to know how much I love my wife! It’s not embarrassing at all!”

“Yes it is!”

“No it’s not!”

“Get your filthy lips off my hair,” Imogen laughed. “I’m serious, Jaron! You’re going to run us into a-,” suppressed giggles prevented her from finishing her sentence.

“Last one, I promise.” True to his word, Jaron pressed one last kiss to Imogen’s temple, and pulled away.

Imogen leaned back against his chest. “Renlyn and I were discussing what to do with the trio of children Roden brought to us.”

“Please tell me you gave them new names.”

“We suggested it, but they didn’t seem to catch onto the idea.”

“What did you and Lady Renlyn decide? Are you going to ship them off?”

“Quite the contrary, actually,” Imogen was smiling, Jaron could hear it in her voice. “Renlyn took the subject to a business ally she has in court, and the children are to become wards here in court. We’ll be able to keep an eye on them.”

“I do love more company, maybe those three will take the spotlight off of my antics.”

“Very unlikely, but you can always hope that’ll happen.”

“Oh Imogen of such little faith.”

“Oh Jaron of such high energy.”

With a snicker, Jaron buried his face in her hair for a moment. “Copying my words now are you?”

“I suppose I am.”

“Imitation is the highest form of flattery.”

“That’s what I’ve heard,” Imogen countered. “Do you prefer that I copy everything you say? Is that what makes you happy?”

“Is that what makes me happy? No, it doesn’t.”

“Then what does?”

“Being with you.”

A blush spread across Jaron’s face despite the fact that he was the one saying silly flowering comments, not the one they were directed at.

He loved Imogen.

She was safe.

Without the company of guards, it was much easier to have a personal conversation.

Much easier for both Jaron and Imogen to just. . . be together.

“I, ah, I confronted Feall and King Oberson,” Jaron said over the sound of Mystic’s hooves on Drylliad’s cobblestone streets.

Imogen reached back, her hand trailing down the side of his face. “And what happened?”

The simple, shy gesture left warmth careening through his toes. Jaron tightened his arms around her waist. His heart pounded through his ribcage, but not with fear.

His heart pounded with pure, sunshine comfort.

Sunshine comfort that didn’t fade away with each new morning.

“I questioned them both, and made an offer to Feall. He trusts us to take care of the Faola, and I won’t expel him back to Bymar,” said Jaron. “I, ah, I’m playing this game for the long run.”

“As you should,” Imogen gestured to a group of ducklings swimming in the Roving River, then motioned for Jaron to continue.

He shrugged, “I plan on speaking with Kippenger.”

“Regarding House Thay?”

“Yes, but also no. Kippenger is my ally despite the history between us. I want to ensure his, and Avenia’s, success. I want to know if Carthya needs to send aid in any form, and if we need to, I fully intend to send the best.”

Kippenger was a new king.

There was no doubt that there were some Avenians who disagreed on Kippenger’s right to reign.

Revolution had to be brewing on their minds.

Imogen paused, connecting what Jaron said and what he was implying. “You need a backup in case you have to send Roden and military reinforcements to Avenia.”

“I don’t want to put Mott in any more danger than he puts himself in,” Jaron muttered. “Feall’s reputation is spotless. He wouldn’t be there for very long either, maybe a few weeks. And it’s-”

“Jaron, you don’t have to explain your choices. I trust your judgement.” Imogen said, but then she tilted her head, preparing to amend her statement. “I trust your judgement when it comes to people.”

“You have no idea how much that means to me.”

Though she didn’t say anything, Jaron could feel her quiet grin radiating through the air.

They rode in silence through the woods, waving at the few people they passed, and breathing in the sunset air.

And yet, despite the comfort, Jaron couldn’t fight the anxiety gnawing at his insides any longer.

What if Imogen didn’t like what he’d set out for her?

What if-

No.

If Lady Renlyn Karise, notorious stone-faced, heartless, ambitious businesswoman, liked what had been set out, Imogen certainly would.

The road curved left. Imogen only protested slightly when Jaron guided Mystic to continue straight.

“We, ah, I’m going to dismount,” Jaron stuttered. “But you can stay on, I’ll just guide Mystic.”

“I can walk,” Imogen insisted.

“If- ah, if you want to, I won’t stop you.”

He knew she’d enjoy the surprise, and yet, he was afraid.

Afraid that she wouldn’t-

No. Imogen was his wife. There was nothing to be scared of.

Nimbly, Jaron dismounted, and held out a hand for Imogen to do the same. He held Mystic’s reins with one hand, and entwined his fingers with Imogen’s with the other.

“Your palms are sweaty, Jaron. Are you alright?”

“I dipped them in the fountain before we came, they must not have dried.”

“You’re acting a little- oh.” Her face shifted from confusion, and then to shock.

Before them, Jaron had brought a ragged quilt he’d found in Tithio, boasting squares Imogen’s mother had made herself. Large pillows were scattered about in all shapes and sizes, some hidden behind additional blankets.

Plates of food rested on curling iron stands. A bucket of ice housed two large bottles of something sweet, Jaron hadn’t been able to decide what to take, so he relied on his head chef’s opinion. Candles on holders and stands were placed in clusters in strategic positions. Crystals hung from tree branches.

“I thought about bringing music, but I could only think of Jolly, and I didn’t want him eating everything I brought,” Jaron said sheepishly. “This- this,ah, isn’t all. I have-”

“I love it, Jaron, I absolutely love it,” Imogen was quiet, her fingers steepled together and resting against her nose.

“That’s not all, I, ah, there’s more to the surprise.”

Fink’s head poked out from one of the trees, but thankfully disappeared the second Jaron frantically shooed him away.

Imogen was still marvelling at the quilt. “This is perfect.”

Once again, Fink appeared.

Changing his plan, Jaron motioned for Fink to bring the final gift. The transaction happened in the knick of time, Fink was dashing back to the castle before Imogen looked up from the quilt squares.

Jaron held the package behind his back. “I, um, I couldn’t resist. I wanted to spend time with you. Just you, Imogen.”

“I really appreciate it,” her smile was tinged with a bright pink blush. “I don’t-, I don’t really know what to say.”

“This will probably make it worse, then.”

“Jaron? What are you-?”

He held out the package for Imogen to see.

In his hands, rested a cream colored cat with a bright pink bow hanging loosely from its neck. Imogen covered her face with her arm for a moment. When she finally looked at the kitten again, she was beaming.

“You got me a kitten,” she mumbled, covering her bright pink cheeks with her hands. “Is it mine?”

“If you want it, yes. And ‘it’ is a ‘she’, if that influences what her name is going to be,” Jaron said as he sat down beside Imogen, holding the small cat out to her.

“Where did you find her?”

Jaron didn’t mean for an instant scowl to ruin his smile. “Renlyn sold it to me.”

“Ah, I think I know why,” Imogen scratched the cat’s ears. “We were discussing different royal pets. Supposedly, there are specific cats you can train to listen to you.”

“I’m not quite sure how true that is, especially coming from Renlyn.”

“We’ll just have to find out.”

The tiny cat mewed, and tried to climb up Imogen’s blouse sleeve. She untied the ribbon, cradling the cat to herself.

Nothing in the world could’ve made Jaron feel the same way that Imogen’s smile did.

Chapter Text

Tobias wiped his forehead with his sleeve, the summer heat piercing his long sleeved tunic. He loved his work. He loved being able to see results, being able to visibly help other people. It was his mentor, the castle’s official physician, who’d suggested Tobias set up temporary clinics in the poorer areas of the city.

It would give him good practice.

The temporary clinics were nothing like the pristine physician’s suites in the castle, but it was certainly better than a pigsty. It was always set up in the morning by the earliest patrol. A large striped tent was set up in the middle of a large space surrounded by dying buildings. This kept patients out of the heat.

Due to his dedication, Tobias had climbed higher than many of the other apprenticed physicians. He was the one telling the others to get patients clean, keep a steady supply of water, and clean up any mess.

Power felt good. Power over a group of people with a similar cause.

The truth was, he liked not having to sweep floors, he liked cleaning people up. He liked stitching them back together.

That was what his ‘power’ brought him.

In the heat, Tobias requested that canopies be set up in addition to the central tent. It would be easier to work that way. He gently patted his current patient’s shoulder after bandaging the patient’s infected wound. The instructions were clear: Keep clean or he wouldn’t survive.

The new trend of cleanliness was creating a string of new businesses.

Or at least that’s what Renlyn Karise said. Everyone was racing to build up their own bath houses. Racing to supply water to people who could pay for it.

Renlyn played her cards well.

She was one of the few members of the gentry providing water for free, in turn, she received a new wave of Carthyan employees.

Supposedly she was setting up an office in Drylliad dedicated to building structures.

Business to Renlyn was like medicine to Tobias.

The patient thanked Tobias profusely, and walked away. With a grin, Tobias handed his used instruments to the nearest assistant, and moved on to the next canopy. A new bag of tools and a new patient were waiting for him.

“You see, Mott, I was able to track down the doctors that healed Imogen after she was shot through her shoulder,” Tobias said as he opened up his bag of instruments. “Because that kind of survival? Nearly impossible. He wouldn’t tell me his name, though, it took a lot of string pulling on both my part and Amarinda’s part.”

Mott, who often accompanied Tobias during a temporary clinic, scratched the back of his bald head. “Right. I have a feeling you’re going to tell me all about it no matter what my answer is, what did he say?”

“Cleanliness is key. He did a study in which he followed doctors with used instruments as well as doctors who used clean ones. Those with dirty instruments had a higher mortality rate.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” Mott nodded. “Dirty cities tend to have higher plague rates, or at least they did.”

“I’m glad you- please stick your tongue out, ma’am- noticed that,” Tobias squinted at his patient’s throat. “It appears that you have white pockets on the back of your throat, you told me it’s quite painful? Do your ears feel jammed too?”

The patient tilted her head left and right.

Tobias nodded, and stepped away when the patient hacked into the open air. “Good, it’s not an infection of the ear, rather an inflammation of the throat. You can get better if you sleep, drink plenty of- absolutely no ale, I’m sorry- water, and make sure you’re coughing often. Come back in three weeks if symptoms don’t subside.”

“You’re very good at what you do,” said Mott as he leaned against one of the canopy poles.

“Plenty of practice, and my wife is an ambassador, she has a lot of access to the best books in the realm. Thank the Saints for the printing press.”

“Rumor has it that you’re single handedly responsible for the lack of bloated corpses in the streets.”

He didn’t mean to make a face.

There would always be people he couldn’t save, and that didn’t sit well with Tobias.

What he’d chosen as a profession differed from what Roden did.

Medicine didn’t label anybody. You were supposed to use it to help everyone in need.

When a person died under a physician’s care, it was far different from taking a man’s life in battle. It was different because steps had been taken to try to save the patient. Because no matter who the patient was, they were being cared for.

In battle, it was a contest to see who was strongest.

Battle crushes compassion.

Medicine exercised as much compassion as it could.

Death never sat well with Tobias, he wanted everyone to have the chance to see another sunrise.

“That’s not true,” Tobias insisted. “Jaron’s the one who's mostly responsible, and I’d put a lot of credit to Imogen and Amarinda. Roden, too. And Renlyn. It’s never the work of one person, it’s the work of a lot of people with good ideas and respect for another human being.”

“Have you been reading books on philosophy too?” Mott arched an eyebrow.

“How did you know?”

“Because I read the same book.”

Tobias opened and shut his mouth several times. A wide grin spread across his face. “Really? I absolutely loved it, though there were some situations where I- please take a seat, sir, I was told you have an injury on your foot and you mustn't put any more pressure on it- didn’t agree with the author.”

“That’s the point of philosophy, is it not?” Mott narrowed his eyes at the patient’s wet boots. “I don’t make a habit of philosophy, but that book was certainly worth my time.”

“Good, good! I thought- sir, can you remove your boot please?” Asked Tobias, trying his best to juggle both conversations.

To his dismay, he couldn’t carry both.

As gingerly as he could, Tobias removed the patient’s boot, and kept a straight face as the smell assaulted his nose.

The foot seemed normal, but Tobias knew better to dismiss a patient’s concern based off of appearance only. Shifting around in his bag of instruments, Tobias withdrew a cloth, and used it to cover his hands while he touched the patient’s foot.

There weren’t many things Tobias disliked, except for feet.

But his love for what he did helped him overcome that loathing in order to help people like his current patient.

“When did you begin feeling pain?” Tobias asked after thoroughly touching the foot. “Does it ever flare up?”

The patient held up his hand and tilted it from side to side. “Fales up on occasion, usually after I’ve worked a long day.”

“And when did this pain start?”

“Er, ah, I took up a second job hauling metal for the blacksmith. My foot started hurting a week or two after I began.”

Ah, that second job would certainly contribute.

So many of the patients Tobias saw had afflictions that could be cured with a little rest, and a little less consumption of liquors. Renlyn’s attempt to provide fresh water to those who couldn’t get any was helping, but as people were working themselves to death, there was only so much water could do.

“You mentioned that the pain flares,” noted Tobias, suddenly very aware of the fact that the cobblestones were hurting his knees. He rocked back onto his heels, “Can you tell me when they get unbearable? And when they’re not painful at all?”

“I, ah, let me think,” the patient’s shoulders twitched. “They don’t get so bad on the Saints’ day. I think they’re the worst on the last working day of the week. I suppose it builds up over time.”

All it took was that explanation to confirm Tobias’s diagnosis.

Unfortunately, the patient likely wouldn’t like it.

He cleared his throat, trying to pick out the best words to describe what needed to be done. “Sir, you don’t have any fractures of the bone, nor any growths or other bad things. . . But you’re working yourself to exhaustion.”

The patient was silent. Tobias could feel Mott’s eyes lingering on the scene, taking in the utter disappointment. Asking the patient to work less was asking him to starve. Asking him to let his family starve.

And that notion made Tobias’s heart begin to whimper. It made his heart break in two.

His patient should be allowed to rest.

He should be allowed to build up his strength.

Allowed to take a moment to ease his aching feet.

“Sir, if you want to make the best recovery you can, you’ll-,” Tobias heaved in a breath, panic crawling up his spine in tiny steps. “Your feet aren’t broken in any way, but they’re tired. Your body is tired. You must take more than a day of rest in order to prevent further injury.”

The patient hung his head.

Behind him, Mott stiffened. Tobias could sense the sudden change in the atmosphere around them. He was preparing to defend Tobias in case the patient grew violent.

It had been several weeks since the last patient tried to hurt him, but it wasn’t something Tobias could ever forget.

After several moments of silence, the patient nodded. “How long would I be unable to work?”

“Depends. If you completely take the pressure off of your feet, I suppose you could recover in a few days. You’ll want to eventually build up strength, but you do that in small increments, not by lugging metal and other wares around for nearly a whole week.”

“I, ah, I have my family to think of.”

Tobias didn’t mean to wince. He’d known that was coming, and he wished with all of his heart that he’d solve the-

“Lord Branch, it truly is a nice afternoon,” said a familiar, catlike voice.

“Lady Karise, I was just meeting with a patient. We’re discussing the best way for him to recover,” Tobias glanced back at the woman behind him.

“Oh?” Renlyn shielded her eyes against the sun. She had to be blistering hot in her gown and veil. “Is there a price to be paid?”

“Not necessarily,” the patient bowed his head, murmuring the appropriate titles for the woman before him.

“Then why is both patient and doctor so disenhearted?”

As subtle as he could, Tobias nodded at his patient. Renlyn wouldn’t have him flogged for speaking to her. Or at least he didn’t think so.

There was an air of nervousness as Tobias’s patient brought his eyes from the ground to Renlyn’s face. Reverence filled his voice. “My lady, Lord Branch has asked- has informed me that my pain will go away given a little rest. . .”

Renlyn arched an eyebrow, both she and Tobias were waiting for the outcome of their discussion.

“My family depends on my, my lady, that’s all I have to say on the matter. I will not let them starve,” the patient finished by bowing his head once again.

“True dedication,” Renlyn mused.

Something mischievous was sparkling in her eyes. Tobias could see it from where he sat. He could see that glimmer as clear as the daylight illuminating Drylliad.

“What are you implying?” Tobias tried not to frown, there were all too many possibilities about what Renlyn was trying to get across.

“I promise you, dear sir, that you will be taken care of.” That twinkle still hadn’t left Renlyn’s eyes. “If you swear to rest for a week.”

The patient stuttered to life, “But how? What-”

“You will simply have to trust me, my friend.”

Tobias wrinkled his nose, but said nothing.

He still didn’t know Renlyn well enough to understand the multiple games she was playing.

The games she was playing and winning.

“Goodbye then,” Renlyn clasped her hands behind her back. And yet, despite her farewell, remained planted where she stood.

Tobias and his patient exchanged a look. There were many things to be done around the temporary clinic, it would be foolish and inconsiderate of Tobias to toss aside Renlyn’s quiet offer to help.

“Ah, there’s many patients who need water, if you wouldn’t mind helping them,” Tobias said, and then he looked at his patient’s wet shoes. “And if you could spare a-”

“Pair of boots?”

“Yes, actually. These ones aren’t suitable, they’re soaked and worn full of holes.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Renlyn tipped her head, and retrieved the discarded boot.

Tobias flashed a bright smile at his patient. “Stay here for a little while longer and rest.”

“Sir, I- ah, thank you,” the patient shifted. “But it’s a lot to ask me to go on blind faith. The nobles aren’t exactly. . .”

“Kind?”

“Exactly.”

There was something stirring in Tobias's chest. Something hot and ready to fight. He heaved in a breath, knowing that this was a deciding moment.

He was deciding that yes, he did trust Lady Renlyn Karise.

“I can promise you that Lady Karise doesn’t go back on her promises,” he held a hand over his heart. “I suppose that’s why she doesn’t make many of them.”

“Then I’ll take your word for it, Lord Tobias.”

“It’s alright, I try not to throw my title around while I work, sir-”

What a fool. Tobias had never asked for his patient’s name. He hadn’t expected to get so involved in his patient’s life.

“Derforgall,” the patient flashed a grin. “Calagan Deforgall.”

“Any relation to Alistair Derforgall? One of the king’s knights?” Tobias scratched the back of his head, curious about Derforgall’s answer.

He nodded. “Alistair is my son.”

“He’s a good man, I’ve heard a lot about him.”

A smile crossed Derforgall’s face. “I couldn’t be more proud of Alistair, he’s my oldest son, and he does what he can for us. It’s not much, and I don’t expect him to provide for me while I can still work. He’s too foolish in trying to give us things. My wife, she, ah, she has a habit of kindness. Alistair learned that from her, and I take pride in knowing he is in a place to use that kindness for good.”

Tobias caught himself nodding. Kindness was perhaps the most valuable currency in the realms. There wasn’t much of it following the Avenian War.

But many people were trying to prove otherwise.

And Tobias would do all that he could to contribute.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

The temporary clinics remained standing well into the evening. Tobias, Mott, Renlyn, and the others had their hands full with various different tasks, varying into all sorts of forms. Renlyn brought water, Mott helped with settling rambunctious patients, and Tobias patched up as many people as he could.

And to top it all off, Derforgall got a new pair of boots.

However, Renlyn was nowhere to be seen when he was given the boots. In fact, Tobias didn't see her until Derforgall had left, promising that he would rest for a week.

He didn't bring up her promise to Derforgall until they were dismantling the canopies.

"That was very kind of you," Tobias noted as he untied part of the canopy.

Renlyn made a face. "I don't see why it has to be discussed. Many people would do the same."

"Some people argue that it's in man's nature to be kind," said Mott from the opposite end of the canopy. "Shows that you're human, Lady Karise."

"Shame, I was hoping that I was secretly a fairy for the longest time."

"You sure do look like a fairy," chipped in a new voice. Lord Feall was watching from his position on his horse.

No retort came from Renlyn, she only scowled and continued untying parts of the canopy.

"Lord Feall!" Tobias grinned. "What brings you here?"

Feall waved his hand, "I was in the area, just completed patrolling the upper streets. Missed
helping you lot earlier today, I figured I could make up for it by assisting with the cleanup."

"You have a height advantage, mind grabbing the center of the canopy?" Mott gestured to the aforementioned spot, which was threatening to drop into the cobblestone street and dirty itself.

With a nod of his head, Feall slowly walked his horse forwards, grabbing the center of the canopy. He held it up with both hands as Tobias, Mott, Renlyn, and another attendant scrambled to untie the canopy.

Tobias held his side of the canopy as high as he could, and instructed the others to go to Mott's side. Mott, catching on, began to roll the canopy.

It was all rolled up and stored within a matter of minutes.

They repeated the process for multiple canopies; Tobias profusely thanked Feall for his assistance, to which Feall responded that it wasn't him who needed to be thanked, it was his horse

On the third canopy, Tobias once again mustered the courage to speak to Renlyn.

He could no longer deny his curiosity.

“Lady Karise, I-,” Tobias began.

“My name is Renlyn, you’re allowed to call me that.”

“Right, ah, Renlyn? You promised Derforgall he’d be taken care of.” He paused, untied the string before him, and continued. “You never specified how he’d be taken care of.”

“I didn’t realize I needed to,” Renlyn frowned at the post in front of her. She glared at the other assistant who’d been looking at her. “I have many ties.”

“To what kind of people, Lady Renlyn?” Mott chimed in, his own eyes glued to the post before him.

“People who have more of an ability to take action.”

“I have many reasons to distrust you, but I’ll take your word for it.”

“Is that because I’m a woman of business, sir Mott?”

“Partially, yes.”

Feall cleared his throat. “You can’t be too harsh about the stereotype. Renlyn has proved herself to be as unpredictable as the weather in late summer.”

“First I am a fairy to you, and now I am a storm with human skin,” Renlyn narrowed her eyes at Feall. “Am I something pretty to look at or something you fear?”

“Is it wrong of me to say both?”

Once again, Renlyn had no biting retort, and instead continued with freeing the canopy from the posts it was tied to.

“I believe Lady Karise,” Feall said as a small smile flitted across his face.

“Thank you, I suppose.”

“Right, ah, uh,” Tobias stuttered. “I think we should go to the Dragon’s Keep once we’re finished. Roden says there’s a new series of pastries we need to try.”

“I haven’t got anything planned,” shrugged Feall. He then looked to Mott and Renlyn. “What about you two?”

Renlyn tilted her head from side to side. “I’ll make that choice once everything is cleaned.”

Tobias tried to suppress his grin.“And you, Mott?”

“Haven’t got anything better to do.”

The thought of pastries split between his friends warmed Tobias's sore back. The work went much quicker, and Feall provided many insights on how to correctly weave a lattice for a pie. In turn, a debate sparked between Feall and Mott about which type of lattice was superior.

It didn't take long for the conversation to grow heated enough to make Renlyn crack a grin.

Altogether, Tobias decided that he'd had a victory over the day's passage. He'd managed to set up and take down the canopies in less than a few hours, stitched up several patients, helped a good man, and even managed to see Renlyn grin at the ground.

If there had to be a loss, it was because Mott argued that a pie lattice was much better over the pie crust in general, ensuring there was more pastry to eat.

Seeing the pie filling guarded by artfully placed dough was always a positive in Tobias's eyes.

With the supply wagons slowly headed back to the castle, Tobias decided that it was appropriate to make their way to the Dragon's Keep.

A sweet, warm pastry was calling his name, he simply knew it.

Feall fell into place beside Renlyn, and Tobias found himself squished in the middle.

Even Mott was in oddly cheerful spirits.

Unintentionally, they all pressed together as they passed one of the dark entrances to the ever mysterious Vaults.

Pastries were the goal, not an agonizing death in a place that rivaled the Devils' Lair.

Days later, Tobias would wonder what would've happened if they'd never decided to get pastries.

The attack came out of nowhere.

Nothing could've warned them about the cloaked bandits launching themselves out of hidden crevices.

They poured out from alleyways, from doorways and from windows.

Mott and Feall reacted much sharper than Tobias did. They faced outwards, keeping the unarmed Tobias and Renlyn safely sandwiched between them. Hooded heads surrounded them all.

One stood out from the rest.

Patched cloak.

Shorter than the others.

"Get his sword!" Bellowed the figure in the patched cloak.

Tobias was able to put the pieces together the second his mind calmed down.

The shrieking figure before him was a Faola. A fugitive Tobias had managed to trust. Had managed to talk his friends at court into trusting.

And here they were, abusing that trust.

“If we make enough noise, Captain Harlowe will come,” Mott said firmly, he’d dug the ball of his foot into one of the cobblestone crevices.

“This place is empty,” explained Feall. He jerked his head towards one of the buildings, “How else would they have gotten here?”

“I still think if we make enough noise, we can-”

“Get his sword, Devils have you!” The Faola barked, gesturing to Feall. When it became evident that nobody wanted to go near him, the Faola began to approach. “And get a rope. They can’t take us, we have higher numbers, we’ll hold the-”

“We’re not supposed to touch nobility,” mused another Faola. This one was short too.

“I don’t-”

“You should care,” Feall argued back, swiping at the Faola approaching him. “It’ll destroy your reputation here. And you don’t want that now, do you-?”

Tobias flinched as Feall’s sword met the Faola’s.

“You will speak when spoken to,” growled the Faola.

“Aren’t you speaking to me now?”

“I will get the captain myself!” Roared the other Faola, he drew his sword. “You’re putting us all at risk for something we don’t even stand for!”

“There is no-,” grunted the Faola fighting Feall. He swung at him again. “There. Is. No. ‘We’!”

“This is madness!”

“This is accomplishing a goal more important than keeping the peace!”

The second Faola wasn’t convinced. “Get the captain. You two, down the main road, you two up the low, and you two up the high-”

The cloaked Faola suddenly stopped fighting Feall, and hurled himself at his fellow bandit, taking the second Faola completely by surprise.

It was entrancing. Absolutely captivating.

Feall lunged forward to attack the cloaked Faola while he was distracted. However, the Faola predicted his move, and spun out of the way, leaving Feall’s sword to clash against the second Faola. The pair exchanged several blows before Feall realized he was attacking the wrong opponent.

The cloaked Faola continued his odd dance. Always spiraling away at the last moment. Always putting himself in the crosshairs and yanking himself free before he was hit.

Mott grabbed Tobias by the wrist, and yanked him as far away from Feall and the fight as he could. Renlyn lithely stepped away, her pale hands clenched into fists.

The Faola who’d been told to find Roden had long since ran in their appropriate directions. The others remained.

They didn’t contribute in any form, they only stood like hooded judges watching a trio of cockroaches fighting over a crumb.

“You don’t know what you’re doing!” Yelled the Faola fighting beside Feall.

“On the contrary!” Retorte the other as he once again spun out of reach. “I’ve been plotting this for ages!”

Feall nearly managed to swipe at his opponent’s middle, but his sword only met open air as the Faola melted into the crowd. He instantly stood tall, looking for his missing foe. “What is his name?”

“I don’t- I don’t know,” the Faola panted. “I-”

A blood curdling howl interrupted the short conversation. Tobias’s gaze was drawn to the shrieking, but all he found was that unbreakable line of Faola.

The distraction worked all to well.

The cloaked Faola materialized out of the crowd, just behind Feall and the other Faola.

Tobias looked away as the cloaked Faola brought the hilt of his sword crashing down on the other Faola’s head, knocking him unconscious.

Feall barely managed to block a blow aimed at his neck.

Another harsh clap of metal meeting metal shattered the air, followed by another, and another, and another. Mott held his ground, and shifted his way to best defend Tobias and Renlyn.

It didn’t seem like Feall was trying to overpower the Faola, or at least that’s what Tobias was trying to believe. The shared blows were much too short. Feall parried each one of the Faola’s advances, and did his best to push the Faola’s blade out of his grip.

A second Faola joined in trying to dispatch Feall, followed by a fourth.

Mott knelt before the fifth Faola, and put his hands behind his head. He then motioned for Renlyn and Tobias to do the same.

Was this really happening?

It was difficult to wrap his mind around it. They’d all been walking in a straight line to get pastries, yes, but the atmosphere changed. Tobias screwed his eyes shut. The swords hitting against each other over and over and over again pounded in his head.

Pounding, pounding, pounding.

Saints.

All he wanted was to go home.

This was only a bad dream.

Unfortunately, when Tobias cracked his eyes open, he and Mott were being guarded by a few of the Faola.

How much time had passed.

“Keep your eyes down,” Mott muttered. “They’re not here for us.”

“How do you-, oh,” breathed Tobias.

The Faola in the patchwork cloak.

The one fighting Feall.

That had been the Faola who’d led the attack in the woods.

Oh, oh saints.

Tobias had allowed for this to happen.

He couldn’t bear to watch as the clashing of swords grew faster, faster, faster.

He couldn’t bear to watch because he knew that Feall had no chance fighting off three of the Faola at once.

And it was all his fault.

Just out of the corner of his eye, Tobias could see the fight. He watched it just as he’d watched the snow falling lazily to the earth just months before. Ever so slow, ever so graceful. Sword hit sword, Feall dodged, all three Faola took a turn kicking at him. Feall tumbled to the ground. His hands and feet were pinned down. The cloaked Faola raised his sword high above his head.

They were watching an execution.

Unable to watch the scene any longer, Tobias turned his head, hoping that Renlyn would offer him the slightest shred of comfort.

But she was nowhere in sight.

All at once, everything came back to speed.

With a roar, Mott threw all of his weight into the nearest bandit, stealing his sword in the process. Tobias frantically looked for Renlyn, for Feall, for a way out, but he saw nothing.

Everything was rapidly filling with chaos.

The Faola, once so serene in their judgement, were fighting soldiers dressed in blue and gold. A tall man hacked through the crowd, bodies falling as he did so.

It seemed that Roden saved the day after all.

And all Tobias could do was watch.

Watch as the Faola tried to keep a protective circle around their patched friend.

Watch as they slowly ran for the shadows.

Watch as Feall scrambled to his feet, Renlyn holding a glittering dagger not far from him.

Watch as Roden demanded to know who was responsible, and be pointed to who was responsible.

The hood was torn off, revealing a young woman with scarlet hair.

Words were being said, but Tobias didn’t hear them.

He’d covered his ears to block out the sounds of unnecessary deaths.

“Tell me everything you remember,” Roden said gently, leaning ever so casually against the fireplace in his office.

Renlyn, Mott, and Tobias all sat in comfortable chairs, and each had their own mug of something warm. Feall was being looked over by the royal physician.

Tobias was still reeling from the attack.

Still trying to put the pieces together.

They’d been walking to get pastries, passed the Vaults, nearly made it to the Dragon’s Keep, a horde of Faola appeared out of nowhere, they attacked Feall but left the others alone, and the perpetrator was arrested.

He’d been told her name was Ayvar, and she was vehemently denying her involvement.

Clearing his throat, Mott told the story. Details fell from his mouth, but Tobias wasn’t listening.

Tobias had seen the entire scene on his own.

Too much blood and anger in one place.

“-there was a promise made,” Roden explained. “Jaron swore we would take care of the Faola if Feall allowed us to.”

“The attack was rushed,” Mott said.

“I know, there’s much more Faola here than were there at the attack. I was on patrol just a few streets over, too. If they’d been planning this, they would’ve done something much more inconspil-inconsnipu- much more quietly.”

“Is inconspicuous the word you’re looking for?” Tobias provided, his ears finally clear of the sound of flesh being sliced open.

“Ah, yes, yes it is,” a deep blush spread across Roden’s face. “It’s been a long day.”

“I agree.”

Renlyn sat straight up. “Is anybody concerned by the fact that they didn’t actually hurt us three?”

“Very much so, actually,” Mott answered.

Spin, spin, spin.

Tobias had been fascinated by several different clocks Renlyn had brought to court to sell. He loved watching how the gears had taken on different shapes.

His mind was just like those clocks, except his gears had frozen up.

Renlyn’s observation spun them back into action.

Think, think, think!

Connect the dots Tobias!

“It doesn’t make sense!” He didn’t mean to stand up. Tobias kept his blanket draped over his shoulders, much like the philosophers of old. “There were too many of them, too many opportunities to slit our throats. I mean, we’re not the best fighters, no offense Mott, and one of the Faola was very adamant about not touching us. They didn’t use any- any- they didn’t hurt- they ah-.”

Mott’s voice brought Tobias back down to his feet. “Take a breath, it’s alright to take things slow.”

Take things slow.

Tobias began to drum his temples, “It doesn’t make sense that they’d leave us alone, but try to cut Feall’s head clean off his shoulders.”

“Beheading is punishment for treason,” Renlyn chirped. She made a face when all eyes flew to her. “What?”

“I’m only slightly concerned,” announced Roden. He was beginning to pace. “Maybe they’d been paid to kill him.”

“But there was an entire group there,” Mott pointed out, a scowl settling on his features.

“It’s quite possible that only one of them was singled out and paid,” Tobias said. “Roden, can I ask how you found out the Faola’s name?”

“I’ve met her before, in the Vaults. I didn’t think she was a killer.”

Thinking, thinking, thinking.

The dots were coming together bit by bit.

Tobias began to pace in the opposite direction of Roden. “Then maybe she was paid to do so.”

A single question lingered in the room. Mott was the one to give the question a voice. “Who would want Feall dead?”

“I’m sure several people would,” Roden answered. “I know there’s dozens of people who want me dead.”

“You grow used to it,” muttered Renlyn.

Used to people hating you so much they wanted you to die?

The prospect made Tobias frown.

He’d have to wait until he could talk things through with Amarinda. He’d be able to see and hear all the details then.

Put them all together and listen to what Amarinda had to say.

There was more to this than just an attack on Feall.

Tobias refused to believe the attack was simply based in money.

You don’t attack a man out in the open with the captain of the guard nearby. Unless you were a fool.

No, this had to be a warning.

A storm of blood and bone lingered on the horizon.

And it was coming all too soon.

Chapter Text

Sleep wasn’t something that Roden excelled at. He fell asleep whenever and wherever he did.

And it just so happened that this time, he’d fallen asleep with his head on his desk.

“Rise and shine!” Bellowed an all too familiar voice, successfully bringing a wave of sound into the once silent office.

Startled, Roden lurched backwards, his chair tipping dangerously backwards until it hit the floor, taking him with it. He shut his eyes. “Good morning Jaron.”

“There’s business to discuss, we can’t have you sleeping.”

“I know, Jaron, I know. Give me a moment, I already have a list of things I need to do.”

Although Jaron was standing at the opposite end of the room, Roden could sense his smug grin. Jaron cleared his throat. “I only wake you this early because I have to ask a favor.”

“And that is?” Roden asked, sincerely hoping it had nothing to do with waxing the hair off of his legs. Jaron had proposed that once, and every member of the king’s circle learned the importance of keeping Jaron occupied with trivial matters in addition to his political duties.

Late morning light glowed all around the room. Roden blinked several times as his head began to plant itself in the waking world. Jaron was dressed in his usual plain clothing, lucky him.

Roden wanted to scrub his teeth clean.

He hated it when he slept in his office.

“I, ah, told Mott to take it easy today because of the events from two nights ago. He has a few reports that need to be looked over and signed.”

“How many reports are there?”

It didn’t actually matter, Roden had every intention of doing them anyways

Jaron scoffed, “I don’t know the answer to that.”

“And when do they need to be finished?”

“Tonight, if possible.”

Roden groaned, and dragged himself to his feet, pulling a piece of paper from his forehead. “Alright, consider them done. But I won’t be able to spar today, Jaron, I have too many things to do.”

“It’s not a problem,” Jaron scratched the back of his head. He looked tired. “Feall is convinced that we have a vital playing piece in our custody, the girl who was captured the night he was attacked.”

The details from that night were still fresh in Roden’s mind.

He went over them as often as he could, always trying to find connections. The girl who’d been taken into custody, a member of the Faola, was somebody Roden had met before. She’d been in the Vaults one night when Roden was on patrol, and allegedly she was assisting another member of her gang in saving a trio of children from a horrific fate.

She’d told him her name: Ayvar.

Ayvar with scarlet hair who bent the rules to help other people.

It was hard to believe that somebody who would brave the Vaults would be driven to cut the head off of another human being.

There was something not quite right about the situation.

“I can see smoke coming out of your ears, are you thinking?”

“Shut up, Jaron.”

“Definitely thinking. Be careful, it’s dangerous.”

“Thank you for your concern,” Roden pinched the bridge of his nose for a split second. “Have you received any information about Queen Danika’s representatives?”

Hesitation visibly weighed on Jaron’s every move. He finally nodded. “They’ve been combing through nearby towns, and will be here tomorrow. I suspect that they will want to interview the girl who attacked Feall.”

“I told Amarinda she was allowed to visit Ayvar if she wanted, I think she’d have more progress than a group of investigators.”

“Good move, is it wrong to say I’m curious about the results?”

“So long as nobody is hurt in the process, I think it’s fine to want to know how it all ends,” Roden gestured to the door. “I’m going to check on her if you’d like to come with me.”

“Amarinda? I don’t think she’d like to be-”

“Ayvar, I meant. I’d be responsible if something happened to her.”

Jaron stepped out of Roden’s office, and combed his hand through his unruly hair. “You think she’s innocent?”

“I try to believe everyone isn’t as bad as everyone says until it can be proven true,” Roden shrugged. He rubbed his eyes.

The dungeons in the castle were odd, particularly because they provided a decent amount of space in each cell. Roden had seen all too many dungeons crafted out of caves and tunnels only big enough for a child. The scent of moldy food was a smell Roden would never come to appreciate. Jaron laughed at him when he stepped away from the mangy guard dog.

There was no telling what would happen if the mongrel bit him.

Roden tried not to think about how he’d die, but he certainly didn’t want his cause of death to be because of a nasty, dirty mutt.

Ayvar had been placed in the last cell. She’d braided her flaming hair around her head, likely to keep it out of the dirt. When Roden and Jaron approached, she sat straight up, her hands cradling her knees to her chest.

“Everything been alright?” Roden asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I suppose,” Ayvar frowned. “I’d rather not be here.”

“I’d rather that you didn’t attack my friends.” Jaron’s biting tone caused her to flinch.

“You don’t really think I was stupid enough to do that, right?”

“I’ve seen plenty of people doing stupid things.”

Roden nodded in agreement. Just the other day, he’d watched Merry shove herself into a barrel and roll off of a bridge into the Roving River. He’d also seen Jaron almost get away with sledding down the grand staircase in the throne room. However, Mott had been there to save the day.

But that unfortunately didn’t stop Jaron from trying to do it again.

Ayvar scowled, “It. Wasn’t. Me.”

“But you were there,” Roden pointed out.

“I was there because I didn’t think the plan would go through!”

“So you knew there was a plan. Who thought of it, if it wasn’t you?”

“I-,” Ayvar jumped to her feet, fire blazing in her eyes. “It’s probably a false name. Goes by all sorts of nicknames, we started calling her Patches. But the arbitrator is a woman, like me.”

“I hate false names,” Jaron mused.

“Ironic,” Roden noted.

"You have to believe me when I say that I wasn't responsible," Ayvar's voice was rising. "I don't care what anyone else says, it wasn't my fault!"

Her voice echoed through the dungeon, and received a bark of disapproval from the guard hound.

Jaron inhaled, "If what you say is true, then we'll release you, I can promise you that."

"It is true and I'll prove it. If Harlowe won't listen to me, then I'll go to Feall. He and I fought our patched enemy together."

"I do recall you saying your patched enemy was actually your friend, at one point," Roden noted. He was still getting used to having a surname to claim.

"That's not true anymore, otherwise I wouldn't have been left in here."

"I'm sorry."

"I don't want your pity."

"Then you won't get our company either," Jaron shot back as he walked away from Ayvar's cell.

Roden stared at Ayvar, but left before she could throw any words at him. She went back to sitting in the corner, and said nothing as footsteps rang through the quiet dungeon.

A courtier was waiting for them halfway down the steps, and promptly dragged Jaron away to attend a meeting with King Oberson. Roden seized his chance to return to his chambers and scrub his teeth and face.

He'd almost managed to shave when he heard the clatter of stones from the courtyard.

Through his window, Roden could see a group of pock marked boys, their sizes varying, but their intentions the same: Torment Ayvar by throwing insults and rocks into her cell.

Abandoning the razor, Roden left his chambers, tugged a doublet over his head, and prepared himself for shooing away a gaggle of bored brats.

Too much had happened during the past few weeks. The stone-throwing boys were added to Roden's long long list of things that annoyed him.

One of the boys stood out from the rest, Jamie Todd. He'd thrown the first stone. Roden recognized him. Jamie was among the boys who were desperately hoping to somehow gain a knighthood. Hoping to mean something more.

That wouldn't happen so long as he was throwing stones at a girl in a cell.

Was having a little bit of peace in the courtyard too much to ask?

A loud whoop erupted from the boys, one of the stones had probably found its mark. Jamie waved his arms above his head as he did an odd victory dance. They'd been clever enough to draft up a little song:

When Daftie Ayvie passed away,
Whadya think they done?
Chopped her up a fishin’ bait:
Copper for a ton!

Devils have the guards on patrol who let the stones be-

A newcomer had joined the group. A girl. A head shorter than half of the boys. Much shorter than Jamie Todd, who was almost the size of Mott.

Mangled hair, holes in her chemise's shoulders. Merry had come to pick a bone.

"Fe-fi-fo fum!" Merry jabbed her finger at Jamie. "I smell the stink of a big boy's bum!"

"Hey!" Jamie cried, all of his attention glued to Merry.

Roden should have seen it coming.

Merry jabbed her elbow into Jamie's stomach, and down, down, down he went. The other boys scrambled away as Merry grabbed Jamie by the ears.

"She's going to tear them clean off!"

"Get some help!"

"My ears! Don't! You'll rip them-!

"Can't help it! Your ears are wonderfully handy!" Merry taunted. "They're like mug handles!"

Roden dashed across the courtyard as Merry slammed Jamie's head into the ground, resulting in his howls echoing across the courtyard. She triumphantly demanded an apology for throwing stones at Ayvar, but none came.

"Somebody help me!" Jamie bellowed, moments before Merry cracked her head against his.

"See the lovely stars, Jamie!"

"She's kilt me!"

"You're going to wish you'd been kilt you mangy, slimy, son of a-!"

In Merry's hubris, she'd forgotten about pinning down Jamie's hands. He swung his fist into the side of her head. Although she wobbled, she didn't topple over.

"I see a bit of brains dribbling-!" Smack! "-out of your ear!"

"Get off of me! Help! She's kilt me!"

"Pity your mother didn't cook you longer," Merry snipped, prepping to bash Jamie's head into the cobblestones again.

Roden finally managed to wedge his arms between Merry and Jamie, while Lieutenant Alistair picked up Merry by the waist, and dragged her off of Jamie. Roden nodded his thanks as Merry cursed and kicked and Jaimie wept as he covered his ears. He was convinced that his brain was bleeding out from his nose.

"I'll take care of the kids," Roden noted, motioning to the large fountain in the middle of the courtyard.

"Yes sir!" Alistair boomed as he somehow managed to keep Merry from escaping to beat the other boys as well.

"Stand up," said Roden as he let go of Jaimie. He then instructed him to follow his finger as he moved it back and forth in front of Jamie's eyes.

He wasn't sure how rattled Jamie's brains were.

"I'm kilt," he wailed. "I'm a member of the undead. I’ll never be a knight now!"

"Not quite, but I hope you've learned something."

"I learned that I hate girls!"

"You'll have a lonely life then, I suppose. Don't throw stones at people worse off than you Jamie, it's not what a knight would do."

Jamie wiped his nose, which had finally stopped bleeding. "I'm- I'm sorry we were- we were just bored."

"Don't apologize to me. You have my permission to be inspected by the castle physician. I'll have my lieutenant escort you."

If he hadn't just been smacked around, Roden was certain Jamie would've fallen to his knees with gratitude. Speaking to the captain of the guard and being around Sir Alistair Derforgall in one day? It was any aspiring soldier's dream.

Roden had been in those shoes once. Idolizing Carthya's heroes.

But you couldn't be a hero and throw stones at prisoners in cells.

Alistair had seated Merry on the edge of the fountain. She crossed her arms. “I’m too angry to give a genuine apology right now, but I do feel bad, so I’m sorry. Give me a few hours before I have to say it to Jamie. I don’t like giving empty apologies.”

“Weren’t you just telling me about being safe while throwing a punch?” Roden asked.

“That’s because I’d- gah, don’t remind me.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be at the Dragon’s Keep?”

“Ayvar is my friend, I came to check on her,” Merry shrugged. “Dawn gave me twenty minutes, but I’ve used up that time in, ah, not very smart ways. Did you forget to shave?”
Roden held completely still as Merry trailed both of her fingers across his stubbled face. “I was in a hurry.”

“I kind of like it.”

“Really?”

“I mean, I just like you, shaved or unshaved.”

“You’re a grisly sight. Best mop you up before you return,” he grinned. Roden then pointed to his left eyebrow, where a long, thin scar started just above his eyebrow and dipped down to the top of his cheekbone. “I’ve had a few head wounds myself.”

A smile tugged at Merry’s mouth, and she visibly tried to fight it with a frown. “I suppose we’ll match.”

“We’ll have to see.”

“There’s no point to life if I don’t have a scar that makes people wonder if I’m secretly a pirate.”

“Are you secretly a pirate?” Roden pulled a spare handkerchief from his doublet pocket, “I suppose it’s my turn to clean you up, would you prefer your own spit or fountain water?”

“I’d prefer your spit, actually.”

“I’m going to pretend like you didn’t say that.”

“Because it makes you uncomfortable?”

“Quite the contrary, I think there’s a better way to exchange spit than-,” Roden cleared his throat. “I take that back. It does make me uncomfortable.”

It seemed that Merry was uncomfortable too. Her face had gone redder than the blood dripping from the cut on her forehead. “I’ll take water. It’s, ah, really warm.”

She was right, the summer morning sun was beating down on the two of them. Roden cupped the unbloodied side of her face as gingerly as he could. He wet the cloth, knelt on the ground in front of her, and forced himself not to grin as he began wiping the blood off of her forehead.

The frown faltered.

“So,” Merry said.

It wasn’t exactly a question, it was more of an invitation. There was no obligation for Roden to say anything if he wanted to. He was allowed to speak about anything that he chose to do. He could talk about the situation with Ayvar. He could talk about how his niece, Nila, wanted to have a picnic for her tenth birthday and that he didn’t know what to get her. He could talk about how he’d begun to see his childhood friend’s death in his dreams.

How he feared that there was something hiding in plain sight.

Something awful.

She was giving him a choice.

And that made him want to tell her everything.

“I have extra reports I need to file tonight,” Roden said as he wet a new portion of his handkerchief. “But I’ve spent too much time in my office. Makes me lonely.”

“Don’t your friends pay attention to you?” Merry arched her unbloodied eyebrow.

He shrugged, “From time to time. They don’t tell me colorful stories about fish hitting my face.”

That made her smile.

“By the way, I never thanked you for the coin you gave me. Where’s it from? I don’t recognize the design.”

“It’s from my home, but it’s not accepted here. Figured I’d give you a trinket. Have you considered getting a pet mountain cat to keep you company?”

“Unfortunately, the royal mountain cat keeper is fresh out of them.”

Merry’s eyes drifted shut, and Roden did his best not to think of the way her body relaxed as he continued supporting her. “Why not come to the Dragon’s Keep? It’s the slowest day of the week, I can help you. I can even promise extra lemon cream tarts.”

“Would I have to share?”

“With me, of course.”

“Promises you’ll make sure it’s a fair share?”

Merry pressed a bruised hand to her heart, “I never lie, Captain Harlowe.”

He hoped she didn’t see his ears beginning to burn. Roden managed to clear away the drying blood on Merry’s face, and ordered the nearest page to get strips of gauze. “I, ah, I’m going to make sure the wound doesn’t bleed through. Is that alright?”

“I only ask that you make me look as much like a plague victim as possible,” Merry was fiddling with her hands.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

To his surprise, when Roden drew away from Merry’s face, she pressed his hand back into place. “No wait, I’m hoping I can siphon away your extreme battle abilities.”

“Not quite sure how true that is.”

“I told you before, I don’t lie.”

“Not quite sure how true that is either.”

Once again, her face flushed bright red. Merry shoved his hand away, “Thanks, ah, uh, thanks for helping me.”

“It’s only fair.” Roden scratched the back of his neck.The page returned with a small roll of gauze. Roden began setting strips of it on the horizontal gash on Merry’s forehead. “You should probably come up with a story about why you look like a plague victim.”

“I’m thinking that I had three eyes at one point, but I tragically lost my third eye while hunting for a golden potato.”

“Not quite what I was expecting, but I’ll take it. Is there more to it?”

“Do you like hearing me talk, Captain?”

“I’ve told you it’s alright to call me by my name,” Roden said, deftly avoiding her question.

She patted the side of his face, “Captain, my friend, at one point I had a third eye, and it helped me see into the ground. I could find all sorts of buried treasure, making me the most valued person in the Eranbole sea. . .”

Words of third eyes and buried treasure fell short on Roden’s ears. As Merry continued weaving her grand story about pirates and sea monsters, his gaze fell on a curious mark on her bare shoulder.

A jagged scar.

As he finished setting the last piece of gauze on Merry’s cut, he found himself brushing his thumb over the scar, wondering where it came from.

Scars carried stories, whether good or bad.

What had Merry done to get a scar on her shoulder? There were others near it, many of them were hiding underneath her printed chemise. Marks of the past. All pale and pink against her skin.

Merry went completely silent, and Roden flinched once he realized what he’d done.

Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look.

Devils have him. Roden looked right at Merry’s crimson face, stared right at those mausoleum grey eyes.

Don’t be the first to look away, don’t be the first to look away-

Suddenly the cobblestones became very interesting.

“I, ah, I’m-,” she stuttered, both of her hands going to tug on her earlobes.

Roden all but jumped to his feet, “I have to go now.”

“I don’t think so, I’m not quite finished with our conversation.”

Roden rubbed the back of his neck, desperate to be away from his mistake.

But he couldn’t bring himself to walk away.

“Treat me like a princess, Roden, please,” Merry said, bouncing back from the awkward moment. She held out her hand, palm down, expectant.

A series of scars were visible on her third and fourth fingers, just below the nails. Roden forced himself not to look too long, and took Merry by the hand, “My apologies, lady.”

In a grand motion, Merry waved her hand across the open air, “No apologies are needed sir knight. You’ll find I am quite spotted all over, and not from freckles.”

“I’m really sorry if-,” He began, but Merry was one step ahead of him.

“No, no, don’t be sorry, it’s really alright. I got that scar as a child. My favorite method of travel was jumping rock to rock, and I missed my target once.”

“I’m sure all toads everywhere envied your skill.”

“Oh they did, trust me, they did. I’d ah, I’d tell you more . . But you’ll have to forgive me for leaving so soon, Dawn’s going to have my head if I’m late.”

He didn’t want to admit that he didn’t like watching her leave.

------------------------------------

Nila sat on his desk, swinging her legs. Her long golden hair had been pinned on her head, and yet despite the obvious effort that had been put into it, several strands had managed to escape. Dirt stains pooled at her elbows.

She was doing a wondrous job holding a stack of papers for Roden.

“I found a cool feather today, but I dropped it in the river,” Nila mused, a slight frown appearing on her rosy face. “It had stripes.”

“A striped feather, you say?” Roden made a face.

“Black and white, I thought it would look cool as a mast for a stick ship, but I got so excited about it, I dropped it.”

“Then I’ll have to help you find another one.”

Nila tapped her boot heel against the desk, “I’m free on every second day of the week, but only in the afternoons. I can fit you into my schedule.”

“You have a schedule now, do you?” He caught himself chuckling. “I would gladly take any available time that I can.”

Everywhere, there were reports hiding. Roden managed to gather all of Mott’s reports, but unfortunately, had managed to lose track of half of his own. He pawed through every drawer he could, every shelf and cabinet.

If it weren’t for Nila keeping track of what had been found and what hadn’t, he would’ve wasted much more time.

How could he let himself get so disorganized?

Roden ran his hands through his hair, “I think that’s all we’re going to find.”

“I can take a turn looking,” Nila offered. She grinned, a pair of dimples making their appearance. “You’ve obviously got something else on your mind.”

“I don’t- I, ah, everything’s under control.”

Although everything didn’t really feel like it was under control. Roden once again ran his hands through his hair, thinking of anything he might’ve missed. Several hours had passed since he’d last seen Merry. It wouldn’t be long before sunset.

“Are you meeting somebody?” Asked Nila, her boot beating out a new rhythm. “Are you going on patrol again?”

“No, no,” Roden said, walking from his desk to the door. “I mean, yes, I’m going to be with a friend of mine. No patrolling for me though, that’s tomorrow night.”

“That’s interesting. Much more interesting than my evening, anyway.”

“I thought you had a busy schedule, sounds pretty exciting to me.”

“Being busy doesn’t mean I’m having fun. Where are you going?”

“Sounds like you’re planning on trying to come with me. . .”

Nila frowned as deeply as she could. “I’m just asking!”

As he paced back and forth, Roden smiled. He was walking to the beat of Nila’s boot hitting the desk. That drew a grin out of her once he mentioned it to her.

He loved being with Nila. She was charming and bursting with life, and made his day a little bit brighter. In time, he saw her as more of a little sister than a niece.

There were many things Roden would always regret.

Things like never knowing his dead brother; Nila’s father.

Too many opportunities had been lost, and Roden was determined not to lose any more precious moments. He’d been cheated out of years and years of memories.

It was time to make new ones.

But he wasn’t sure if taking a ten year old girl to a tavern was one of them.

“Please, please, please, please, please take me with you,” Nila begged. “I don’t want to have to take tea with Lady Orlaine’s whatever they are.”

“Lady Orlaine’s wards?” Roden offered.

“Yes! Them! They’re mean to me, dreadfully boring too. I call them the Greys. Because they make everything grey around them, get it?”

Roden took the numerous papers from Nila and shoved them into a satchel. He’d have to depend on Merry for ink, he didn’t trust himself not to spill any as he walked across Drylliad.

He wouldn’t be able to know if the Dragon’s Keep was truly empty until he got there, and he’d rather not risk taking Nila to a place not quite appropriate for a child.

She took the rejection well, however, Roden wished he’d been able to bring her with him.

The regret was even worse the moment Roden stepped into the Dragon's Keep, only to find that it was as empty as Merry claimed it was.

Aside from the old man strumming a lute in the corner, the only sound was a ghost of a conversation from the back.

Dawn was behind the counter, her grey streaked hair piled into a bun on top of her head.
Another barmaid was sitting in the corner beside a young man. No sign of Merry.

"Captain! It's nice to see you!" Dawn called, waving her cloth in greeting.

"It's nice to be here," Roden countered with a smile.

She turned around, and retrieved a large tankard, "Are you looking for a drink?"

"Oh! No, no, I'm looking for a person, actually. It's Merry, actually, she wanted to talk."

"I'm sure she did, I'm sure she did. Merry! It's rude to keep a guest waiting!"

The conversation grew louder, louder, louder, until finally, Merry came strutting out. She’d changed her chemise, this one was green and hid her scarred shoulder. A patterned scarf rested neatly over her hair and behind her ears.

She pointed at the mass of gauze on her head, “Still in one piece!”

“I’m not surprised, you can hold your own,” Roden grinned. Now comfortable, he set his paper filled satchel on the wooden countertop, and perched on a tall stool.

“You should see her fight a door, it’s quite frightening,” teased Dawn.

“They are the bane of my existence.” Merry stared hard at the front door, and shook her fist at it before bursting into a series of snickers.
“A truly noble quest.”

Merry snatched a used tankard, and began scrubbing at the insides. Her smile faltered, “How’s Jamie Todd?”

“He’s alright, just a little concerned that he was caught throwing stones at a person.”

“Good, that’s good. You sure he’s fine?”

“Saw him myself a few hours ago,” Roden said. He retrieved a few reports, and set them on the counter. “Do you have-?”

“Ink? Right here,” Merry reached below the counter. “And we have a variety of writing tools to choose from too.”

“Don’t use the quill!” Dawn ordered from the other end of the bar. The door opened and closed. “Take care of that guest!”

The glass Merry had been scrubbing at clinked against the counter. Her brows screwed together, “I’ll take care of it.”

“What are you-,” Roden began, but Merry snapped her fingers near his face. He brushed her hands away, “I know, I know, I need to get my work done.”

“I’ll check back in on you in a moment, have that other guest to see,” Merry leaned over the bar, and smoothed her hand over Roden’s head.

He glared at the first report waiting to be finished. Check the details. Signature here, signature there. Next report. Check the details. Signature here, signature there, and so on and so forth. He caught a few snippets from Merry’s conversation with the new guest.

Something about lemon cream tarts.

Saints, he really wanted one of-

No! He had to do a report first!

Report first, tart later!

Merry set a hand on his shoulder, “Your handwriting.”

“I know, I know, it’s messy,” Roden shrugged.

“I was going to say that I like it, sir knight.”

Oh.

She disappeared behind the bar, reappearing moments later with a lemon cream tart in each hand. Roden received his first, much to his delight, and technically, he did manage to finish two reports.

He deserved a tart.

“-I completely understand! Court life is horrifically boring,” Merry said, her voice barely audible above the lute strings.

“I’m glad somebody gets it!” Chirped the guest, their voice oddly familiar.

But not familiar enough to draw his attention away from his blasted reports.

The lemon cream tart made it easier to bear.

Snippets of the conversation still drifted into Roden’s atmosphere. Merry laughed, “And is there anything else I can get you?”

“No thank you, but I do appreciate that you asked me,” came the reply.

And then Merry’s hand was back on his shoulder, asking him if there was anything she could do to help. Unless she was good at forgery, there wasn’t much she could do.

Roden scribbled through report after report, firmly aware that Merry was watching his every move.

He managed to finish the tart just as he finished his first pile of reports.

“And onto the next one,” Roden mumbled.

“Ah, ah, ah, take a tiny break, Captain,” Merry chided. She set her hands on Roden’s, “One stack is worth a victory celebration.”

“Do I get another tart?”

“Possibly, unless you’d prefer a pie.”

Pies were good, when baked properly.

Merry’s hands were cool on his palms.

Cool on his battle torn hands.

They fit too well in his own. A little too nicely. It was impossible to timidly turn his palms up, impossible not to hold Merry’s rough fingers.

He supposed he preferred that to a tart.

And a pie.

“Why are you holding hands with him?” Asked the other guest from right behind Roden.

He jumped, his eyes flying to the voice’s owner.

Only to find Nila with a little bit of lemon cream still on her top lip.

“Oh, uh, because-,” Merry stuttered, however, Roden had a better prepared retort.

“What are you doing here?”

Nila shrugged, “I was bored, so I followed you.”

“And you saw her come in, but didn’t tell me?” Roden asked, turning his attention to Merry.

She made a face, and clasped her hands behind her back. “I only did what I was told.”

“I wanted to surprise you, mostly so I could prove that it’s perfectly acceptable for me to go with you to things,” Nila pointed out. She clambered onto the stool beside Roden. “And I’m very helpful. I can read through your reports. All you’d have to do is sign.”

“Doesn’t mean you’d understand what’s going on,” noted Roden.

“That’s not important, all that matters is that everything is spelled correctly.”

Merry nodded, “She does have a point.”

A smile spread across his face, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t be rid of it, but he did manage to contain it to a slight smirk.

He handed a stack of papers to Nila.

Every so often, Roden glanced up to make sure Merry was still near, and watched as she cleaned tankard after tankard.

She beamed at him each time she caught him looking.

And all he could think about was the way her cool hands felt when they rested on his own.

Chapter Text

“That’s Falstan Stead, Cornwick, and Riverfront,” Amarinda sighed, crossing three town names off her list. She stretched out her gloved hands. “That’s everything, aside from Drylliad.”

Tobias tipped his canteen towards his hand, and wiped water across his forehead, “I’d be willing to go with you to Tithio if that’s what you wanted.”

A tempting offer, but Amarinda shook her head.

A gusty breeze whisked through her horse’s mane, the trees and their rustling leaves seemed to agree with her thoughts.

The scent of horse and her own unwashed body added to her frustration.

Come to think of it, her frustration was a large, decorative cake. The kind of cake with lines and lines of spun sugar, and tiers and tiers of cake itself. With each inconvenience, Amarinda was quietly adding a decoration to her frustration creation.

Oh how she longed to be rid of it; the cake had become extremely distasteful early on.

Fatigue was threatening to overtake her.

It was time.

It was time to return to Drylliad. Time for a hot bath, something with cream, and a few minutes of frustrated emotional release. She’d be prepared to handle all other situations after that.

Time to throw away her gaudy frustration cake.

Her riding boots became a little too tight the moment she thought about being able to take them off and walk through the castle lawns.

She’d ridden out with Queen Danika’s seven investigators two days before, and Tobias went with her without hesitation.

Together, they’d combed through every village within a reasonable radius of Drylliad, asking if they’d seen anyone fitting the predicted description of any surviving Thay member.

They heard a wide variety of rumors, but only one of them had enough credibility to almost be true.

Supposedly, Graer Thay had gathered an army, and he was somewhere in Carthya looking for his daughter too.

Too many theories cluttered Amarinda’s head. She prided herself on being perfectly organized, but without a clear path, she’d fallen into disarray. Tobias made her write everything down at one point. It helped, in a way. Having everything out in the open made thinking much easier.

Amarinda spent hours pouring over her decision. Though she’d come to Carthya at a tender age, she still had memories of Bymar. Still remembered learning how to fence with her cousin, Princess Eline, and Eline’s ladies-in-waiting.

Mireldis Thay was one of them.

Too much time had passed since Amarinda last saw Mireldis, she doubted she would recognize her.

The Thays were ghosts.

Rumors people clung to, a scapegoat the sixteen other noble houses dragged around to put their faults on.

A pin was coming loose from Amarinda’s hair. She shoved it back in, but to no avail; the pin only shifted.

Everything was much more enticing than admitting that they’d gone on a wild goose chase. Amarinda studied the patterns on her riding skirts. Studied the creases in her tan gloves. Studied the well kept road that would take her and her party back to the castle.

She’d stepped out on the stage, sang her magnificent aria, and took her final bow. The final encore was playing, it was time to face the music.

“I think it’s time to admit that we’re just chasing ghosts,” murmured Amarinda.

“Sounds like you’re saying Thay are ghosts,” Tobias grinned, eventually breaking into a stifled chuckle.

She couldn’t prevent her own smile. “That was clever.”

“I don’t like seeing you defeated, figured you needed a pick-me-up.”

His ability to notice her distress was comforting in a way. He was too good at making her understand that she was safe with him. “And what about you, Tobias? Are you in need of a pick-me-up?”

“You’re my pick-me-up, darling.”

“If you’re not careful, my blush will match my skirts.”

“I do like seeing you in that color.”

Amarinda shook her head, a laugh falling from her lips. She welcomed the play on words. She appreciated Tobias’s attempts to keep her happy.

But she was wasting time.

Even if the Thays were alive, they didn’t want to be found.

Who was she to take that from them?

The investigators, a little too slouched in their Bymarian uniforms, were waiting farther up the road. Their horses pawed the ground. Not one person called out a greeting.

Amarinda couldn’t blame them.

They were supposed to be scouring the countryside with Feall, not her.

However, she knew her value, and she still deserved to be treated with respect. The hairs on the back of her neck began to rise despite the sun shining on her back.

“Was anything found?” Amarinda asked, guiding her horse to the front of the group.

One of the investigators, a tall woman with pitch black hair, shook her head. “Thay must have known we were coming for her. I’m afraid she might have fled the area.”

“I would’ve fled the country,” muttered Tobias.

Which was probably what Mireldis Thay did, if she was alive. Amarinda was learning that she was ready to let the dead remain at peace. It wasn’t fair to drag memories through the mud.

“I would like a combined report from all of you that I can look over,” ordered Amarinda as she motioned for the investigators to follow her lead. “It seems our quest has failed.”

“We did make really good friendships,” Tobias argued, gesturing to the scowling investigators behind him.

His quiet humor really did manage to bring a lightness to any situation.

“You know, I think it would do good if you spoke to that young woman, Ayvar,” he mused.

“I know, I know. I wanted to participate in the investigation myself before I spoke to anyone. I was hoping we’d find Thay. Too many people are all too willing to impersonate royalty when given the chance.”

Tobias shrugged, “I can’t correct you there, and I’ve been in a similar situation.”

“That was insensitive, I’m-”

“Oh, don’t apologize, it was completely out of your control. Your statement is correct, and I wanted to attest to that. There was an opportunity to impersonate a missing person of power, Jaron, and many people seized that chance.”

“Conner’s gamble played out in Jaron’s favor,” Amarinda wrinkled her nose.

She hated admitting that her mind moved too quickly, hated admitting that sometimes she brought up old memories completely by accident.

Hated that she still said foolish things despite her training.

Hated that she inadvertently made connections.

Patterns were easy to her. She recognized patterns in history, and did her best to incorporate them into the present. Sometimes, Amarinda felt her head split into two sides.

One side was completely dedicated to her friends and family.

The other side was bent on finding every correlation imaginable.

It had taken years of practice to avoid bringing up Darius in a roundabout way in front of Jaron.

And she was still practicing the art of tenderly respecting the horrible game Bevin Conner forced her husband and two dear friends into.

“Now that you bring that up,” Tobias tilted his head. “I can see your concern. Why you would avoid bringing it up around Ayvar.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if Oberson was involved somehow.”

“How so?”

How?

So many, many, many ways to usurp a kingdom-state, especially when there was already a family name taking all of the blame.

Bloody ways, stealthy ways, peaceful ways.

Too many ideas. Amarinda had to pick one. “Maybe he’s trying to put a puppet princess on the throne of Idunn Craich, marry her, kill her, and take the land. He’d be king over two kingdom states, it would be easy for him to lead an uprising against Queen Danika and King Norman.”

“Do you think Oberson is really capable of that?”

A direct reference to Oberson’s obvious disdain for physical activity.

People were both predictable and unpredictable all at once. Watching a grown adult behave in a position of power was almost the same as watching a toddler be left in a room with sweets.

“Not exactly, but it is a start. It’s also a coincidence that he’s here in Carthya, don’t you think?” Amarinda rolled her shoulders. “I’m excited to sleep in a real bed again.”

“Ah, I see where you’re coming from, spreading rumors about how much he fears the bloodthirsty Mireldis Thay and then lift her up to become his bride. It would make quite the romantic ballad. A disgusting one at that.”

“Hardly romantic to force a young woman to marry a man the same age as her grandfather.”

“Which makes Oberson’s theoretical plan all the more despicable.”

Amarinda’s skin was crawling. “We’ll put that on the extreme end. I shouldn’t even be judging him.”

“True,” Tobias nodded. “But you also know Bymarian politics better than anyone I’ve ever met, including King Oberson and Lord Feall.”

Warmth spread through her ribs. Spread through the entirety of her body, and burst out through a smile. "You're getting quite good at the game too, you know."

"I do try," Tobias chuckled. His dark hair was flopping across his eyes. "I still think you should speak with Ayvar. I know I will, but it won't be anything about politics. Or at least state politics, more along the lines of, and I can't believe I'm saying this, criminal politics. This is much more Roden's expertise than mine."

"Roden's got a lot on his plate at the moment, you're a good friend to help him out."

"Anything to keep him out of the alehouse. I haven't had to prescribe any tonics for him in almost four weeks!"

"That has to be a lie," teased Amarinda, but deep within her heart of hearts, she was happy to hear the news.

It wasn't her place to instruct a person's life.

But it was her place as a friend to be concerned.

A pair of pink roses bloomed on Tobias's pale face. "No, no, I'm being completely serious. And same with Jaron, as well, he's been doing much better now that he has multiple puzzles to play with. Although I suspect that he may have an allergy pertaining to, ah, Imogen's new feline friend."

"And what can we do about that?"

"Not much, except get rid of the cat," Tobias steepled his fingers, and tapped them against his nose.

The little gesture was all too recognizable. Amarinda pointed to her head, "Have you got a brilliant idea for me, love?"

"I do, actually. Oberson is the cat, and you are Jaron-"

"Hopefully I don't look like Jaron."

"-you're absolutely stunning, and if Jaron were a woman, he'd wish he looked like you, but I have a different point. Oberson is the cat, you are Jaron, who is quite possibly allergic to cats. You're allergic to Oberson.

"Think about it, Ami, we didn't have the Faola to worry about before Oberson arrived. Mireldis Thay was resting in an unmarked grave. Oberson is the one we should be worried about. Nobody ever suspects the older man with a-," Tobias arched backwards, and rounded his hand over his stomach. "I think there's more than what we see. A lot more."

"You're right, you're very right," Amarinda shoved her loose hair pin back into place. "I pride myself on locating similarities but I can't do it right now."

"In your defense, you're a part of the puzzle, not the person putting the puzzle together."

"Thank you, I think?"

As odd as his words were, Tobias's analogy made sense.

If Amarinda was a part of the puzzle, it would be much harder to see the grand picture. Even then, there would still be parts of the puzzle missing, as she doubted the puzzle was put together. The whole ordeal was making her head spin.

Making her head spin with no apparent direction.

Plans were essential. Jaron would argue that point at every turn, despite having plans already twirling around in his head. Things rarely ever worked out in the way people hoped, but plans provided stability.

There was typically an outcome various parties hoped for.

Not anymore. There was no grand ending to plan for.

No end goal.

There was no end goal to even think about.

Was it even there?

Was the end goal not something Amarinda could grasp?

That made her stomach tilt. It was dangerous, keeping harmful secrets. She was beginning to realize that maybe she was being stared in the face by an enemy she’d talked with before.

Perhaps they knew what the end goal was.

Aware of her scowl, Amarinda forced her face to relax. The birds were singing despite the rising heat. Everything was bursting with life, with the promise for a bright, wonderful day.

She clung to that promise.

“Tobias?” Amarinda asked, urging her horse to go just a little bit faster.

He followed suit. “Yes?”

Large stones marked the road, pointing the way to Drylliad for weary travellers. Dozens and dozens of people walked in lines towards the city.

At their head was a large man riding an even larger golden horse. He waved a greeting, and soon turned his attention back to the lines of people.

“I just want you to know that I love you.”

“Have you done something wrong?”

“Why is that the question you ask me?”

“Jaron tells me that he loves me each time he does something he knows I’d get mad about.”

Amarinda’s polite giggle soon turned into a struggle to keep herself from snorting. It made sense, as she’d seen Jaron walk up to Tobias covered in chicken feathers with a declaration of love on his lips. Her battle to contain her ungraceful laugh failed.

“No, no!” Laughed Amarinda, her eyes welling up. She was painfully aware of how her giggles were gaining pitch with each escaped sound. “I just- I just wanted to tell you!”

“I love you too, darling, and I haven’t done anything wrong either,” Tobias’s chuckles were far more contained.

It wasn’t quite fair, Tobias’s perfect laugh.

He was her best friend above everyone else.

Which was why it was so painful to know how close he’d come to harm because of that girl who’d attacked Feall.

So painful to know that no matter how hard Amarinda tried, there would always be something she couldn’t control. Something that would come hurtling toward her, and only damage Tobias in the process.

--------------------------------

Her skin had been scrubbed of dirt, sweat, and its own top layer. Made her skin smart, of course, but it was better than walking around in a disgusting travel gown with sticky hair.

And it was definitely better than being trapped in a large meeting room, flanked by virtual strangers.

Amarinda tucked her hair behind her ears. Lines and lines and lines of words were beginning to blur into the same excuse.

Tobias sat to her right, holding eerily still. The investigators sent from Bymar to find any living member of House Thay were seated at the same table. Each one of them bore the same black hair and the same royal uniform of blue and white. Not one person said a word as Amarinda read through their report.

“You didn’t find anyone,” Amarinda sat as tall as she could. “In all of your findings, you found no trace of Mireldis Thay or her father.”

“I’m sorry, Ambassador, we searched as well as we could,” said one of the investigators, a tall man with his hair tied back. The pins on his shoulder distinguished him from the others. He was of higher rank.

“I understand, it’s difficult searching for people who’ve grown used to keeping their names hidden. I wouldn’t be surprised if Mireldis wasn’t even here.”

A clatter of opinions burst from the investigators, all of whom were trying to argue that Lady Thay was most definitely in Carthya.

“Did you take a chance to visit the girl who allegedly attacked Feall?” Tobias murmured, he’d reached for Amarinda’s hand beneath the table.

They’d only just gotten back from their travels. Or at least that was the excuse Amarinda had drafted up during her long break before the meeting.

His grip helped her stay firmly planted. Amarinda sighed, “I-, no. I haven’t, I’m afraid of going. . .”

“And seeing the wrong girl there?”

“I’m more afraid of finding the right girl, Tobias. The Thays were good friends to Danika, they were there when I left Bymar for the first and last time.”

“Queen Danika is pushing for their pardon. Or at least that’s what I’ve been able to gather,” Tobias muttered, his eyes glued on Amarinda’s face.

“That’s what’s been said, but there’s no telling how true that is. King Oberson, he, ah, he’s terrified of Mireldis Thay, and it’s very likely that everyone else shares that view. I’ve sent a letter to Queen Danika to prove that she sanctioned this, but haven’t received anything in return.”

The arguing grew louder and louder, much unlike what Amarinda expected from Danika’s representatives. Her aunt ran a strict court, and had no time for gossiping in her presence.

Perhaps the investigators who’d been sent weren’t even members of Danika’s court.

It wouldn’t be shocking if that was true.

In silence, Amarinda and Tobias watched the men and women rise to their feet as they began to yell at each other.

“I know Thay is here! She’s going to slit our throats in our sleep!”

“And how do we know you’re not Mireldis Thay?”

“Because you were with me on that-!”

“You’re fools! All of you!”

Dots were appearing. Dots that needed to be connected. Amarinda shut her eyes for a moment, remembering the days of her childhood when she’d visit Drylliad. When she and Darius were calmly discussing the matters of whether or not fruit teas were legitimate, and he’d begin to fidget.

Just like his brother.

Darius would flick ink all over a piece of parchment, and then begin to connect dots until he’d made a picture.

He could do that no matter how dispersed the dots were.

Saints, Amarinda needed that ability.

She needed to connect these seemingly unrelated dots.

Oberson’s arrival, the rise of the Faola, the rude investigators Danika had sent, the sudden rise of interest in a young woman who’d vanished four years ago.

But how?

“I want to go. I want to go see her right now,” Amarinda decided.

She was choosing to pursue the more likely lead.

Choosing to connect the dots.

Besides, she’d been riding with the investigators all day, she knew what they’d seen.

Amarinda stood tall, Tobias standing ever so slightly behind her. She clasped her hands, “Noble lords, ladies, I appreciate what we’ve done and your efforts. I do believe that our search was thorough despite not finding what we wanted. Please leave your reports here so I can read them. As of now, you are free to return to Bymar.”

“With all due respect, Ambassador-.”

“There will be absolutely no arguing on my decision. My word is final, good sir.”

The silence that followed as she left the room had the power to choke a horse.

Think, Amarinda! Think!

Dots, dots, dots. Put them into boxes. She needed to put them into boxes, organize them by size, frequency, and their first appearance.

Tobias padded along beside her, his hands clasped behind his back as the pair of them began the long descent to Drylliad's dungeon. No words needed to be said.

Amarinda was facing her fears, and deep down, she knew that she would find at least one piece of information before the afternoon was through.

King Oberson, a lesser king from Bymar. Amarinda had met him before while she was a child. She remembered him as being large, kind, and a little afraid. He brought presents to certain children in the court, but always kept his gift giving a secret. Pleasing others was always his priority.

Now Feall.

Feall was unpredictable, Amarinda had barely known him, as he'd risen to power just as she was fully embracing her role as Carthya's future queen. But she'd written to Danika and Danika's daughter, Eline, all about him.

He was a kind man with a strict outline for order.

He was one of the brave cavalry members who'd come to Carthya's aid during the Avenian war.

His presence with Oberson wasn't unexpected. Feall was a noble, yes, but not a king. He provided safety to those who sought it.

However, Feall and Oberson's involvement with Danika's investigators was enough to raise alarms. Amarinda didn't want to confess out loud how much she'd disliked their company.

She was supposed to be kind.

If it weren't for Tobias's steady hand, Amarinda would've walked into a stone wall. He continued his silence as he guided her down the grand staircase.

Then came the matter of Mireldis Thay.

Mireldis, daughter of Graer Thay, a man who'd earned the title of vagabond with his frequent travels. The Thays had been dear friends of the crown for generations following a marriage of two people from years and years ago. Their loyalties ran deep enough that the Thays frequently provided their children to pose as decoys for the crown's heirs.

Amarinda had known Mireldis.

They'd played together with imported dolls, fabricating elaborate stories that rivaled the dramas of court.

It had taken much on Amarinda's part to finally figure out what happened.

She could still remember the night that she read Eline's letter, explaining that the Thays knew about Avenia's plan to ravage Carthya, but didn't say a single word to Danika.

The Thay's kingdom-state was pillaged while Danika's soldiers were in Carthya.

The entire castle had been gutted, members of the family butchered, save for Graer's wife. She managed to rebuild as much as she could.

Rumors spoke that she'd kept Mireldis alive, but when Danika came to find out the truth for herself, she'd been informed that Mireldis died; murdered by those who hated her family.

Grief didn't pick and choose the people it affected.

Amarinda hadn't seen Mireldis in more than a decade, but her heart still broke.

Her heart broke that night knowing that there was no proof of what had actually taken place that merited the slaughter of a family.

The torches guiding the way down to the dungeon flickered. A shiver ran down her spine, and she gladly took Tobias’s hand when he offered it.

Four guards had been posted at the outmost door. Only one spoke, asking minimal questions before letting both Amarinda and Tobias in.

Sunlight poured into the dungeons in patched gaps. Several of the prisoners inside only moved their heads as Amarinda and Tobias reached the bottom step.

A figure was already standing outside of the last prison cell.

The cell belonging to the supposed Mireldis Thay.

Heart in her throat, Amarinda forced herself to step forward. What would she say if it was Mireldis?

How could she apologize for the atrocities of the past?

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Feall said. “Not that I don’t welcome your company.”

“We’ve just returned from searching for Mireldis Thay,” Amarinda stood tall. “There was no sign of her.”

“I can imagine it was surprising when word got out that Mireldis was here in Drylliad.”

“Is it true?”

Feall stepped aside, “See for yourself.”

Amarinda inhaled, clasping her hands behind her back as she looked over the girl in the cell.

Long red hair, bright green eyes, freckles that rivaled the stars. Her face was perfectly devoid of scars and blemishes. She wore trousers and a long black shirt. There was something fiercely confident in her stance.

This girl knew her value.

“It’s-,” Amarinda began, releasing the breath she’d been holding.

Feall was nodding. “I know.”

Was it wrong how relieved her heart was?

Was it wrong that she was happy for the answer she’d been given?

“Is it what you wanted?” asked Tobias.

Amarinda squeezed his hand. “That’s. . . That’s not Mireldis Thay, love.”

“Somebody recognizes it,” the red haired girl wrinkled her nose. “I keep telling everyone my name is Ayvar, and they don’t believe me.”

“People thrive on gossip, I’m sorry for the mixup.”

“I don’t mind, I’d be a fool to get angry about being mistaken for a princess. . . And I’d be a fool for not being angry about being locked in here.”

“Banditry and attempting murder is-,” Amarinda began, but Feall shook his head, stopping her argument.

“Ayvar knows the man behind the attack.”

“And?”

“And she was innocent,” Feall gestured to Ayvar. “She is the Faola who fought with me against my attacker.”

Tobias nodded in agreement. “He’s telling the truth, there was one who broke away from the group to help him.”

She nodded, “And what do you propose?”

“I haven’t run this by Captain Harlowe yet, but I think it’s unfair to Ayvar to be trapped here despite being innocent of what she was arrested for,” explained Feall as he crossed his arms. “I’d like to promise freedom to Ayvar if she helps us capture the bandit who came after not only me, but your husband, a noble regent, might I add.”

A noble proposition indeed.

And yet, Amarinda was still unsure of how she felt about relying on a criminal for information.

People would do anything to get what they wanted.

Chapter Text

The sneezing never stopped.

Always sneezing.

And it was all that cat’s fault.

Jaron rubbed his eyes. It wasn’t the cat’s fault, it was his. He should’ve thought about his reaction to the cat when Renlyn managed to sell it to him. Cat hair was everywhere.

But by the Saints, nothing could best the smile Imogen had when she held that kitten on her lap.

He didn’t mind silent suffering if it meant Imogen’s happiness.

Her secret smiles filled his head. The way her hand sought his whenever they were near each other kept his feet planted on solid ground. Jaron knew that Imogen’s mere presence gave him the focus to solve every puzzle at his fingertips.

However, it went deeper than that.

Imogen insisted on looking him over each time he got into trouble. She had no qualm about staying up until the early hours of the morning when memories of Avenia plagued him. Her love came in gentle forms; she brought him deftly spun bracelets, a spoonful of sweet pastry dough, ruffled his hair with flour covered fingers.

He could sneeze for a millenia for her.

With each passing day, his stance seemed more and more likely.

Did the Saints sneeze?

Energy burst through him without a warning. Jaron stood up, nearly knocking his chair to the floor. He snatched the letter he’d been reading and began to pace. King Kippenger was sending a representative to discuss the situation Avenia was in.

There was nothing Jaron wouldn’t do to assist an ally, save abdicating the throne and a few other atrocious acts of course. He was prepared to give aid to Avenia in any shape.

He was prepared to send his best military leaders to action if needed.

His mind instantly began thinking about what news Kippenger’s representative would be bringing. The path he walked was familiar. It gave him space to think outside of his normal routine. To the corner, to the door, to the shelf, back to the desk.

Thomas Row, that was the representative’s name. A farmer raised to nobility after demonstrating his loyalty not only to Avenia, but to Kippenger during the first months of his reign.

Carthya’s harvests over the past four years had been wondrous, and a new push for education thanks to Amarinda and Tobias. Feall was working with Roden, and Jaron was confident that Feall would make a capable temporary replacement should Roden be sent to Avenia.

The pieces were in place. Jaron could play this figurative chess game and win.

He was juggling what would happen if Avenia wouldn’t accept his help and what he would have to do to protect his own people.

Would it really be worth it to keep a Carthyan influence in Avenia if it only forced Avenians even further away from good relations?

Decisions, decisions, decisions.

To many outcomes, not enough stable variables.

Think, think, think.

What could he do if Avenian relations soured?

Bymar would come to help, Jaron was certain of it. Mendenwal would likely come as well, and maybe even Gelyn, though the latter would likely have ill intentions. He could always completely withdraw Carthyan aid as a last resort.

A very last resort.

Why, oh why couldn’t Thomas Row be there, knocking at the door?

Jaron rubbed his watering eyes, and returned to his desk. One letter down, countless others to go. He inched his chair backwards, inched his chair forwards, and wished he had a chair that spun in a circle.

Saints, it wasn't even noon and he was already bored.

He’d managed to read through ten letters when somebody finally came to check in on him.

“Mott!” Jaron stood up, this time successfully knocking over his chair. “Thank the Saints, I wanted to ask you if-”

“No, I will not let you use a shield as a sled and ride down the grand staircase,” Mott’s brows lowered into a solid line.

Jaron broke into a wicked grin, “Good idea, but that’s not what I was going to ask. You read Kippenger’s letter, no?”

“Haven’t had much to do but read since the attack.”

“Do you have any- oh.”

During the Avenian war, Mott had received a wound that would’ve killed him if not for Tobias’s skill as a doctor. The wound prevented Mott from fighting his way through a battle.

The wicked grin Jaron sported faded into a deep frown. He wanted to be a good king, a just man who sought out justice rather than revenge.

It was a well kept secret that Mott’s ghost wound flared up. A well kept secret that the fight with the Faola who attacked Feall was responsible for the ghost pains.

But Jaron knew, he knew about Mott’s pain.

And if it weren’t for Imogen and Tobias, he would’ve taught the Faola a lesson they’d never forget.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” muttered Jaron, tossing through the emotions pulsing through his veins.

Anger, grief. Anger, grief. Anger, grief, and frustration.

Did nobody care how hard he was trying? Was that why there was still crime plaguing the streets of Drylliad?

“Not exactly, but I do appreciate the sentiment,” Mott shifted on his feet. “I did read Kippenger’s letter, and I dispatched a series of spies to try to locate his representative.”

“Did you find anything out?”

“As a matter of fact, I did, although the information came from someone who’s not one of ours.”

Oh?

Jaron motioned for Mott to continue, “Is it reliable information?”

“From a friend’s perspective, yes. However, from a ruler’s perspective there’s a series of holes in the story,” explained Mott. “My informant, ah, has a history of lute playing, colorful clothing, and pursuing every vice he can.”

“Please don’t tell me-”

“Jolly is my informant.”

He didn’t mean to snicker. He didn’t mean for that snicker to turn into a fit of laughter. Jaron coughed into his fist, trying his best to mask his grinnings, “Jolly is your informant? The man who sings about floral crowns and otherworldly romances?”

Mott was all too serious as he nodded. “Considering that he not only found Thomas Row in Avenia, he also managed to bring him here, I’d give him a bit more credit.”

“Lord Thomas Row is here!? When did he arrive!? Why wasn’t I informed!?”

“He requested to stay at an inn rather than in the castle, said he wanted to be with the army that accompanied him.”

“By the toes of every Saint, I have to meet with him,” Jaron bolted to the door, froze as his hand hovered above the handle, and turned back to face Mott. “Would you like to come with me?”

“Perhaps,” Mott said. “I have several things that require my attention, but I don’t suppose you’d be opposed to helping me with my duties.”

More chores?

More papers to read?

Jaron shrugged, “You can’t tell anyone, otherwise they’ll always come to me to help push papers around. I have duties of my own.”

“As do I.”

“To the Devils’ with duty then, I’m the king, my word is law.”

With a few catches, of course, but Jaron didn’t need to explain that. It would’ve diminished his perfect excuse for abandoning the papers on his desk.

All he needed was a quick stop at his chambers to change his clothing. He’d be able to blend in with the crowd well enough in a pair of shabby trousers. It was a slight miracle that he hadn’t been recognized yet.

He was feeling more comfortable once he’d dressed in a patched shirt and ragged shoes.

Although when he stood next to Mott, who was still dressed plainly according to the royal court’s ridiculous standards, he looked like a pickpocket.

Once a thief, always a thief.

The courtyard was bustling with life. Horses were being led to shadier pastures outside the castle. Sheets and sheets hung on lines as they dried in the sun. Roden was yelling at a group of soldiers.

Everything was as it should be. Jaron was grateful for the false security the routine brought.

He would be a fool not to acknowledge that there was something not quite right anymore.

Like a right shoe being ever so slightly bigger than the left. Like a spoon and fork sharing the same engraven design, only the spoon was missing a line.

Quiet yet obvious once found.

“Tell me about the army Thomas Row brought,” Jaron asked, stepping over a laundress’s large bar of soap.

“It’s a hired army,” Mott wiped his nose. The smell of heavy duty soap wasn’t the sweetest scent. “The army’s lead by a man called Commander Regar, I suspect his men are mostly Bymarian and Gelynian.”

“Ah, mercenary armies. They’re too unpredictable for my taste.”

“One could argue that you’re also too unpredictable for different peoples’ tastes.”

“I don’t give my loyalties to the highest bidder; mercenaries do.”

In fact, Jaron didn’t think the mercenary armies so favored by nobility were worth their cost. The mercenaries were little more than bandits who could play the game of life a little smarter.

It was far better to find men willing to fight for something they loved rather than men who fought for coin.

“Market day should be a success,” Mott noted, gesturing to the various stands that had popped up overnight.

Jaron shrugged, “I’m hoping for a large supply of peaches this time. The peaches at last market day were full of worms.”

“I suppose you’ll just have to wait two days to see the peaches yourself.”

“Think I should have Roden pray for my peaches and their health?”

“Don’t be sacrilegious.”

Ah, market day was a thief’s dream. Hundreds of vendors came with their goods to sell, and security could only protect so many. Jaron had taken advantage of market days as a child. He rarely returned to Mrs. Turbeldy’s Home for Disadvantaged Boys with his hands empty after market day. Sometimes, he got lucky. Sometimes he was able to steal enough food to feed himself for a few days.

Though the anxiety that constantly tugged at his lungs made him wonder.

Made him think.

Made him realize that maybe this market day would be unlike the others.

Perhaps he should get somebody to pray about it.

Thomas Row was staying at the Traveler’s Inn, which meant a short walk for Jaron and Mott. . . If Thomas was there. And as fate would have it, Thomas wasn’t. He was at the Dragon’s Keep, catching up with a certain brightly colored troubadour.

Jaron could hear the lute playing long before he saw the Dragon’s Keep. Jolly’s clear tenor voice sailed through the tavern’s open windows.

There was blood in the kitchen
And blood in the halls
Blood in the bathtub
Blood on the walls

There was no way that tune was Carthyan, Jaron would’ve remembered a ballad that violent.

“After you,” Jaron said, holding the door open for Mott.

“On the contrary, after you Jaron.”

“No, after you.”

It took several more ‘after you!’s before Mott finally conceded and walked into the Dragon’s Keep with Jaron trailing behind him.

Stepping into the Dragon’s Keep was like stepping into a warm cloud.Men and women crammed around almost every table. There was no set uniform among them, although several people wore thick, knee-length skirts with knotted patterns. Jolly was sitting on a table flanked by a man playing a large set of pipes and a woman playing a tin flute. Jolly’s tenor voice took on a thick Bymarian accent; the chords he played turned sour:

There was blood in the kitchen
There was blood in the halls
Blood in the bathtub
Blood on the walls
And blood on her Majesty, Lady Ingrithay
A heart in her right hand, dagger in the other
Ye can’t outrun yer mother
She is yer judgement day

Jaron shivered.

Ye can’t outrun yer mother
She is yer judgement day

“That’s him, Lord Row,” Mott said, gesturing to a man in humble clothes sitting a few tables away from Jolly and the other musicians.

Lord Thomas Row was a plain man, save for his head of wiry, black braids. His white shirt flared down his arms and cinched around his wrists.

Cinched around one of his wrists.

One of his wrists?

Lord Row had a right hand, but the left one ended in an elegant, covered hook.

“Sir Mott! It is good to see you!” Lord Row bellowed, and he lunged to embrace Mott. “It’s been too many years!”

“Yes it has, Tom, yes it has,” Mott clapped Row’s back.

Jaron tried to stop the squirming unease that came when watching a pair of old friends reunite.

Once Row had broken off his embrace, he took a long look at Jaron. “Is this-?”

“It is, no need for names, my friend, I came here to make your acquaintance before rushing into talks of politics,” Jaron said, extending his right hand. “Sometimes they get messy, I’d rather be friends than enemies. And forgive my dress, I find it’s easier to slip through crowds when not wearing a jeweled tunic.”

“There’s no need for forgiveness, I wholeheartedly agree, and I sincerely hope you don’t become my enemy, your Majesty.”

“Please, call me Jaron.”

“I accept your invitation of friendship,” Row bowed his head. “Jaron.”

“By the Saints can he change this ballad?” Mott grumbled as Jolly launched into a new verse.

Ye can run, ye can run
But lady, o’lady
Yer time’s almost done
Sing like a bird, say what you say
O’lady yer the one
To stop dear Ingrithay

Blood in the-

“No! Don’t touch my lute you insufferable imp!” Shouted Jolly as he launched off the table.

Jaron let out a sigh of relief, “Find whoever stole the lute and bring them to me, I’ll give them a knighthood.”

“The ballad isn’t that bad,” muttered a man from Row’s table.

“On the contrary, I think it is.”

“Ignore old Regar, he’s sympathetic for Bymarian ballads,” Row waved his hook at the man who’d spoken.

Regar held up his hand in greeting, but chose to drink the contents of his tankard than say hello.

“It’s not exactly a song for dancing,” Mott pointed out. “It’s Bymarian, you say?”

Row nodded, “I’ve heard it multiple times on my journey here. Regar’s men are mostly from Idunn Craich, it’s been interesting hearing their tales, they’re much bloodier than tales from Bultain.”

“Only recent ones,” Regar said, having finally finished his drink. He dragged his hand across his bearded face and smiled, “Commander Regar, I am honored to be in your presence, Majesty.”

Jaron made a face, but nodded in return.

He hated it when people called him Majesty.

That’s what people called their prettiest mares, Saints be cursed.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Jaron said. “Sort of.”

“Thank you, I think.” Regar nodded his head. His eyes were elsewhere, and soon he was sitting again, nursing his tankard.

“See something you don’t like, Commander Regar?”

He didn’t answer.

“Regar isn’t the most spirited at this time, return in a few hours and he’ll be singing with our mutual friend Jolly,” Row said, setting his hook on Jaron’s shoulder. He steered both Jaron and Mott away from the table. “Jaron, may I ask how your day has gone?”

“Oddly average, if I must be honest,” Jaron said, still looking at Regar.

“Ah, I must say the same, as average as riding can be.”

Mott chuckled, “That’s good news, I’d hate to know there were troubles with your travels, Row.”

His head was racing. Put the pieces together, put the pieces together! Regar was several inches taller than Jaron, and from his standpoint, could probably see more than Jaron could. From Regar’s eye-level, he could see the other side of the tavern, which was much emptier.

Bar maids dashed to and fro trying to appease every customer they could.

One of them was serving drinks while keeping a lute free from Jolly’s hands. Green scarf in her bushy hair. Jolly’s ballad echoed through Jaron’s mind.

There was blood in the kitchen
There was blood in the halls
Blood in the bathtub
Blood on the walls

Something was staring at him, right in the face.

It plagued him as he sat at the bar, listening to the bloody Bymarian ballads, and trying to weasel his way into Mott’s conversation with Lord Row.

He rubbed his eyes, which had finally stopped burning now that he’d left his cat hair covered office.

Aside from Lord Row and discussing Avenian policies, there were other matters to take care of. Among that never ending list of problems to be solved was the Faola attack on Feall.

It took numerous questions from Feall, Roden, Amarinda, and himself to firmly conclude that the girl who’d been arrested wasn’t responsible. She was simply doing the wrong things, got involved with the wrong people, and got caught at the wrong time.

But Feall had suggested bargaining with her. Bargaining with Ayvar, a criminal.

It wasn’t the worst deal Jaron had to make.

He promised Ayvar her freedom and a pardon for banditry if she was able to help them catch the culprit. She swore on her own false grave in Gelyn that she would keep her word, and was prepared to act immediately if needed.

Ayvar would remain a prisoner but would be moved to a tower room. She would be given ample food, water, and blankets.

All she needed to do was be prepared for when she was needed.

It was a game, and Jaron didn’t mind playing games.

He only hoped that he’d win this time.

Too many times had he gambled and lost, resulting in disastrous consequences and a pile of innocent victims. This time, it would be different. He would catch a Faola, and in the process, drive away all the others.

There was blood in the kitchen
There was blood in the halls
Blood in the bathtub
Blood on the walls

Jaron rubbed his eyes. The words to Jolly’s song refused to leave.

It seemed that even thinking of Jolly caused him to appear. “Headache, sir?”

“No, no, I bought a cat from Renlyn Karise, turns out I don’t do well when cats are around,” Jaron confessed.

Jaron didn’t want to admit that he was thankful for Jolly’s company; he didn’t want to admit that Mott was talking to Lord Row much better than he was.

“Ah, Renlyn,” Jolly held a hand over his heart. “The envy of every man and their wives. A beauty and a wickedly intelligent woman.”

“Imogen mentioned that you knew her, how did the pair of you meet?”

Jolly’s blush matched the pink details on his blue jerkin, “Ah, well, I was one of the fools who chased after Ren for her golden curls. I thought I was clever by tricking her into a gambling game. . .”

“And?”

“And I lost everything. She gave it back, of course, but I learned my lesson. Karise is a force to be reckoned with, and a fierce friend. But she’s good at every kind of game.”

Especially the game of How Much Money can Jaron Waste on a Cat?

“And you know Merry, as well,” Jaron noted, gesturing to the girl in question as she dragged a box of dirty dishes to the back room. “How?”

“It’s not my story to tell,” Jolly scratched his mass of black hair. “I’m sure you could ask her about it one day, not sure how much luck you have.”

“I’ve heard plenty about her, believe me. Roden, ah, Roden gets easily excited when he’s on the bottle.”

“Yes, yes he does.”

“And how do you know Roden?”

“You know what,” Jolly made a face. “I’m not quite sure, we were speaking in a tavern and he’s always been a friend of mine. Wrote a ballad about him, and a ballad about Renlyn. I have a ballad I’m writing about-”

“Don’t say it’s about me and Imogen.”

“-you and Imogen.”

“By the toes of all the Saints,” Jaron pinched his nose. “At least make it a good one.”

“I can sing it right now!” Jolly bounced away from the bar, swinging his lute into action.

Jaron’s eyes went wide as Jolly began strumming each chord, tuning them all to perfection. He began plucking out the first few notes, which led to a series of slowly strummed chords. Jolly heaved in a breath, preparing to sing, when out of nowhere a pair of hands shot out and stole the lute.

“You’re in timeout!” Merry said, cradling the lute in her arms. “You sang Ingrithay too many times, you’ll lose your voice!”

“Merry, Merry, quite contrary, you tug my- that’s actually a wonderful rhyme,” Jolly made a face, nodding ever so slowly.

In silence, Jaron pressed his hands together and bowed his head, grateful for Merry’s interference. She winked at him in return.

She patted Jolly’s shoulder, “That’s right, my tortured artist, think about your songs, and drink something warm. Can I get anything for you gentlemen?”

“I’ve heard the lemon tarts here are very nice,” Jaron said, exchanging a sneaky grin with Mott.

That wasn’t the only thing they’d heard.

“And for you, Lord Row?” Merry cradled the lute in one arm, and set her free hand on her hip.

“I’m quite well, thank you,” Lord Row flashed a smile. “I’ll be certain to call for you should anything change.”

“I’ll do my best to answer that call, sir.”

There was blood in the kitchen
There was blood in the halls
Blood in the bathtub
Blood on the walls

No, no. Not the rhyme again.

He hated not having all the answers. He hated knowing that there was something lurking in his future.

--------------------------------

“This stuff, really?” Tobias asked, gesturing to the bottle not far from Roden’s reach.

As much as he tried, Lord Thomas Row was more concerned with checking in on Commander Regar’s men, and opted to save their discussion for a few days later.

Meaning Jaron had nothing to do for an entire evening.

His first instinct was to snuggle up to Imogen, or do something silly like cover her eyes and guide her through the castle. However, his attempt to steal her away came too late: Amarinda had commandeered Imogen and Renlyn for an evening ride in the woods with Feall and Mott as chaperones.

His second instinct was to pester Roden into doing something fun, but when he entered Roden’s usually clean office, he knew he was gravely mistaken.

Pieces of fabric and at least one of Roden’s shirts were scattered about the floor. He and Tobias were arguing about something, but the argument came to a grating halt when Jaron walked in.

“Be quiet Tobias, you need loads of spirits to be a seamstress,” Jaron wrinkled his nose. “Let Roden embrace his dreams.”

“I’m not becoming a seamstress!” Roden crossed his arms, his frown rivaling the gargoyles on Drylliad’s biggest cathedral.

“Are too!”

“Am not!”

“Are too!”

“Am not!”

“Then why do you have a pair of shears in your hand and fabric on your lap?” Jaron sauntered over to Roden’s desk, sat in his chair, and kicked his heels up. “I can arrange for you to get more pretty things if you’d like.”

Roden perked up, “Really? I mean, no! That’s not what I want!”

“Oh he definitely wants pretty things,” Tobias pointed out. He’d picked up the bottle on Roden’s desk. “This is definitely stronger than what I’m used to trying.”

As Roden curled over his piece of fabric, Jaron looked to Tobias, and both exchanged a snicker.

If he couldn’t convince Roden to ride a shield like a sled down the grand staircase, Jaron would make fun of him till he reacted. That would be worth it.

Tobias looked at Roden, who was cursing his scissors, and made an outline of- of a bell?

Jaron squinted at him, shrugged, and shook his head. What could he do with a bell? What- oh! Tobias was making the outline of a skirt, not a bell. Ah! Jaron could work with skirt jokes.

“You know, I hear Bymarian women wear dresses with slits so they can move,” Jaron rubbed his nose. “I’m sure Amarinda can get you one.”

“No, no, that wouldn’t work,” Roden waved his hand, and didn’t bother looking back.

Looking for reassurance, Jaron looked at Tobias, who was sniffing the contents of Roden’s bottle of spirits. He made a face as the fumes escaped. No reassurance from him.

There had to be a way to upset Roden. “Are you more of a skirt person?”

He paused and straightened. “I suppose I am.”

Once again, Jaron looked to Tobias. This time, Tobias was prepared with a confused shrug.

“Are you- are you being serious?” Jaron leaned forwards. He’d heard of men wearing skirts into battle. By the Devils, even some of Regar’s men wore skirts. He just hadn’t expected Roden to suddenly take a stance on the trend.

“I don’t really mind what a girl wears,” Roden looked back to glare at Jaron. “Why are you asking me this?”

“I was talking about you wearing a dress, you oaf.”

Roden pointed his scissors at Jaron, “No. I’m not playing this game, I’m in a good mood.”

“Good mood? I’d like to change that.”

“Jaron, nothing you could do could change that. I have the evening off and-”

“Are you making dish rags for the kitchen staff?” asked Jaron, now resting his chin on his hands and his elbows on Roden’s desk. “No, Tobias, don’t drink that. I need somebody on my side in case Roden plays dirty.”

Unfortunately, Tobias was looking to do something foolish too. Jaron could hear him draining Roden’s bottle of spirits.

Dear Saints, he was causing a circus.

Good!

“I’m not going to fight y-,” Roden tried, but Jaron was eager to do something incredibly foolish.

“You’re making hair scarves for Merry, aren’t you?”

Aha! He’d hit a nerve!

“So?” Roden grumbled, curling back over his fabric. “I like seeing her ears. One of them has this-”

“Boring!” Jaron jumped to his feet, and walked over to a fine square of red fabric. “You want to know what would make these all prettier? Tobias, you’re going to pass out.”

“I think I deserve a quick nap,” Tobias argued, setting down the now half-empty bottle of spirits. “Jaron, don’t do something stupid, remember what we said about being kind.”

Oh yes, Jaron remembered that deep discussion. Something about being considerate for others and not pestering people until they reacted in a negative way. During the conversation, Tobias pointed out that perhaps Jaron wasn’t used to receiving any verbal or physical attention, which was likely the cause of Jaron’s desire to punch Roden as hard as he could during the most obscure times.

Unfortunately, Tobias’s statements were too close to home. During the next large banquet, Jaron made sure to punch Tobias as hard as he could rather than Roden.

He’d certainly gotten an earful from Imogen after that.

“Don’t. You. Dare.” Roden growled, slowly rising to a stance to attack.

Jaron raised his foot above the red square of fabric, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m warning you. Don’t do-”

“What, this?”

His intention was to bring his boot down on the red square of fabric and leave a massive footprint, but he wasn’t sure if he accomplished his goal. Roden had launched himself right at Jaron, sending both of them careening across the floor.

“Hey, hey, hey! I’m a little guy! It’s my birth- hey!” Jaron cried out trying to wriggle out of Roden’s deathgrip.

“I told you not to touch the fabric!” Roden roared.

Jaron felt his feet touch the ground for a split second, and then he was hurled over Roden’s shoulder. Completely unfair. He refused to stand for it. Jaron kicked his legs like a fish, grabbed the back of Roden’s tunic, and tumbled to the ground.

He barely managed to roll away from Roden’s swinging foot.

“Oh, the fabric,” Tobias murmured. “It’s so pretty.”

“Quick-” Jaron dodged a flying fist “-question! What was in the bottle?”

Roden lunged, successfully grabbing Jaron by the left leg and dragging him to the ground. “It’s from Libeth!”

Now that wasn’t good at all. Libeth had some of the wildest alcohol brewers in the entire kingdom. Supposedly, they made a liquor strong enough to remove barnacles from sea vessels.

And how much had Tobias drank?

“He was-,” Tobias hiccuped and wiped his eyes. “Roden was making little hair scarves-,” another hiccup. “Making hair scarves for Murry. Little scarves, oh dear Saints, this boy can only wield a sword, bless him in these days as he-”

“Shut up Tobias!” Jaron and Roden yelled.

By the Devils! Roden had the upper hand again! Jaron was all too aware of Roden’s hand holding both of his wrists, which meant only one thing.

“Please, Roden, I beg you, it was just a joke!’ Jaron whimpered, trying to weasel out of his grip.

No, no, no.

The first time Jaron and Roden had gotten into a physical fight ended the same way, with Jaron unable to move and Roden prepared to deliver the finishing blow.

“I just wanted to cut up fabric!” Roden argued. “Tobias and I were doing fine before you barged in!”

“I was bored! Please don’t do this!”

“You could’ve helped with the fabric!”

“I wasn’t that bored!” Jaron squirmed again. “Please, Saints, no. No! Ah!”

The finishing blow was the worst part of the fight. Roden had licked his little finger, and shoved it into Jaron’s ear.

Although, now there was a third party involved.

Tobias flung his arms around both Roden and Jaron, tears streaming down his face. “I love you both with my whole heart, honest to the Saints. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

“Can you get Roden to take his nasty hands off of my body!?” Jaron bellowed, yanking his head free from Roden’s little finger.

“Does the baby need a nap?” Roden cooed.

Oh, ho, ho, Roden was remembering old exchanged insults. Jaron unsuccessfully tried to escape, but to no avail. Roden hooked his arms beneath Jaron’s knees, and swung him up into his arms, while still keeping a drunken Tobias on his feet.

“Put me down!”

“Not until you apologize!”

“Roden?”

“Yes?”

“Rot with the Devils, you clotpole.”

Tobias’s quiet tears turned into sobs as he wrapped his arms around Jaron and Roden once again. “Little hair scarves.”

It was quite the scene to walk into: Roden holding Jaron like a baby, Tobias sobbing like he’d learned he would die soon, and bits of cut up colorful fabric covered the floor. It just so happened that Amarinda’s night ride finished early.

They didn’t look pleased.

The disappointment in Mott’s eyes was an all too familiar sight.

“I can explain,” Jaron croaked, finally realizing that he’d lost the fight.

A fight that he started.

“It looks like a dress shop in here,” Mott clasped his hands behind his back, Amarinda, Renlyn, and Imogen trailing behind him.

Roden practically dropped Jaron on the floor. “I was trying to make something, and then Jaron showed up.”

“Hey, you didn’t have to hit me,” argued Jaron. He grunted when Tobias set his head on Jaron’s shoulder, and refused to move. “Get off of me!”

The only answer Tobias gave was a new wave of silent tears, and a fresh set of apologies.

Mott’s face didn’t betray a single emotion. “Weren’t you going to meet with Lord Row?”

“He moved the meeting back, and I happened to finish my work this evening, and didn’t want to be alone.”

“So you picked a fight with Roden?”

Jaron scowled, he realized how foolish he’d been in starting the fight. A conversation wouldn’t have been enough for him, there was too much energy bursting through his body.

“These are pretty,” Amarinda held up an opaque piece of yellow fabric.

“Don’t worry, I’m not making myself a skirt,” grunted Roden, his hands full of different fabric squares.

“Were you putting something together?”

“I finished, so it doesn’t really matter.”

“He was-,” Tobias hiccuped. “He was making tiny, tiny scarves. For Merry, to wear.”

There hadn’t been a time when Tobias had been so drunk before, or at least there hadn’t been a time Jaron could remember.

Amarinda sighed, and transferred Tobias’s head from Jaron’s shoulder to her own.“Oh, darling, what did you do this time?”

“They were fighting, and I’ve had it.”

Amarinda patted the side of Tobias’s head, her eyes boring into Jaron’s very soul. However, she gave no biting remarks, she only wrapped her arm around Tobias’s waist. Together, they inched towards the door.

Her smile was forced. “I’ll be taking him to our chamber, I don’t want him doing something foolish.”

“Is that from Libeth?” Imogen asked, gesturing to the bottle on Roden’s desk.

However, before anyone could give a clear answer, Renlyn took a large swig from the bottle, set it down, and frowned. “That batch was weak.”

“You know what?” Jaron crossed his arms. “I don’t think I want to know. Jolly told me about your tendencies.”

“Is that an invitation for me to take over the kingdom through a gambling match?”

“Absolutely not, I’ve been warned, and I won’t ever concede to your money games again.”

“That’s what they all say.”

By the Saints! Jaron scowled at Renlyn, who had the audacity to remain completely placid. He knew deep in his heart that he’d have to do something worse than terrorize Roden to get a reaction out of the notorious Renlyn Karise.

Imogen raised her hands, “Ah, we should take the energy down a notch, don’t you think?”

“Jaron started it!”

“I know Roden, I usually start things, unlike you.”

“Jaron!” Everyone chorused, followed by Tobias’s slurred agreement.

“What!?” Jaron crossed his arms, screwing his face into the fiercest scowl he could.

He’d rather be lectured than think of those cursed lyrics.

There was blood in the kitchen
There was blood in the halls

Jaron would rather hear complaints and be tossed around like a child’s doll than consider what fate had in store for him.

He wasn’t ready yet.

He just wasn’t ready.

Chapter Text

"I brought you something, Jaron."

Oh, did she now?

His interest was captured. Jaron sat up from where he was lying on the floor. "Imogen, I'm-"

"It's alright, we all have bad days," Imogen said, she handed him a mug, and sat down beside him.

Did he have a good enough excuse for what he did? Probably not. Too much energy pulsed through Jaron's body. It was time to escape. Time to get out.

Taking it out on Roden was all too easy.

It was easier to throw a punch than discuss tender topics.

He was coming to terms with his anxiety by ignoring it. His palms were always sweaty, and his stomach was constantly being squeezed. Something was staring at him right in the face. Jaron scratched the back of his head.

Imogen's hand was on his shoulder, she was there to listen.

"I'll be meeting with Lord Row this afternoon," Jaron muttered. "I have a plan for whatever he asks. A way to help Avenia in any way we can."

"Good, a plan is always good," said Imogen, a tiny smile fluttering across her face.

Jaron lived for those tiny butterfly smiles.

"There's too much waiting in the future. I don't like that I've once again had to bargain with a criminal and I don't like all of this pressure to find Mireldis Thay. I know how it feels to be the lost
royal, and even if she's alive, I'd rather respect her choice to remain hidden. Her name is being
used as a scapegoat, and it's not fair."

Silence settled in. Jaron sipped from his mug; Imogen had brought him some sour tasting tea. The warmth spread through his throat, threatening to overtake the chilling anxiety that hadn’t quite left since he’d returned to court so long ago.

Even if he couldn’t save everyone, he could do what he could to help.

“Do you think I should apologize to Roden for what I did last night?” Jaron mumbled.

A dark curl fell across Imogen’s nose as she shook her head. “I think you might make him mad. Give him a little space, and then apologize.”

An apology was due this time. Jaron had been the one to start their fight.

Uncomfortable emotions tugged at his false sense of normalcy.

He chose to run from what he felt. “Did you know that Jolly has quite the network of people?”

“I did, actually. Amarinda was a little upset when she found out he’d be staying in Drylliad,” Imogen squeezed Jaron’s shoulder. “She fears that many of the people we’ve met aren’t who they say they are.”

“Nobody is who they say they are. We tell people what we want them to think and only show our true faces when we’re alone.”

“That’s not quite true.”

“Oh yes it is, Imogen.”

Anger was rising up in his lungs. Drink the tea, drink the tea. Jaron tipped his head back and didn’t stop drinking the scalding liquid even as it seared down his throat.

It was still hard to accept that no matter how hard he tried to hide, Imogen was there. She was always there with a kind word, and always there with a biting word if he did something dangerous.

But she was welcome.

Everyone’s filled with holes.

When he was removed from his family a decade ago, a Mother sized hole tore through his heart, followed by a Father shaped hole, and a Darius shaped hole.

No, no. It wasn’t a hole, it was a hollow. Hollows could be filled, but not every hole could.

Jaron had a family hollow in his heart for too long.

He was still getting used to having that hollow filled. Still getting used to how Imogen had stepped into his hollow, hollow heart and filled him with warmth.

Sometimes that warmth burst, and he always gave into it.

Emotion was a curse that plagued his family. Too much sympathy, too much energy, too much of everything.

It wasn’t very often that he lost control. In fact, Jaron prided himself on his ability to hold his head high in the face of condescending nobles. They tried their best to use his unorthodox tendencies against him, and he responded with a ferocity that his father, King Eckbert, had lacked.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean what I said,” Jaron dragged his hand over his face. “I haven’t been feeling as prepared as I’d like to be.”

Imogen was silent for several moments, then leaned over, and smoothed down Jaron’s hair. “Is there anything I can do to help? As your friend, and your wife, I want to support you however I can.”

There were so many things he needed, but the second somebody asked, he didn’t want to speak of them.

With Imogen, it was different.

She’d seen him at his very best and very worst, there was nothing he could willingly hide from her.

“I, ah, I’m having trouble picking my battles.”

“Which battles? We’ll go through them together.”

Go through battle together. With Imogen at his side, Jaron could do anything. He set down the mug, and reached for her hand. “I’ve been considering my deal with Ayvar, about catching the patched Faola who nearly butchered Feall. There’s too many things I can’t figure out, too many details are missing, and I can’t make a gamble without them.”

“Are there connections you’ve made?” Imogen asked, her head tilting ever so slightly. “There’s more to this than just an attack on a military leader. It reeks of something worse. I think the attack on Feall was very much on purpose; I think it was an assassination attempt.”

“But the motive? What was the motive? Feall has charmed everyone at court, he’s very well liked. It’s very difficult to get a large group of people in on an assassination attempt, and Ayvar’s resistance only proves that.”

“Are we ruling out money as a motive?”

Jaron drummed his fingers against the back of Imogen’s hand. “I think so. Too expensive for a group that large to attack one man. I’m also ruling out robbery, as Tobias, Renlyn, and Mott weren’t harmed on purpose. Any injuries that came were because they fought back.”

The most obvious remaining motive held the lowest moral ground.

Perhaps Feall had been attacked because somebody wanted his head on a pike, because somebody hated him with a fire that could only be put out with Feall’s death.

An attacker thinking like this would find a way to take their revenge, or die trying.

“I’m sorry, I have to stand, it’s hard to-” Jaron began, but Imogen had already sprung to her feet.

She’d extended her hand. “You don’t have to apologize. We’ll walk to the atrium.”

His heart was going to burst.

Imogen didn’t need to hear his excuse. She just knew. She’d grown to accept that his mind worked best while he moved.

There were times when he questioned why he prayed to the Saints, as it was very clear that he was married to one of them.

Arm in arm, Jaron and Imogen left the office, their pace gradually quickening. Fast walking made for fast thinking.

Who on earth would want Feall dead enough to follow him to Carthya?

Memories, memories. Jaron wrinkled his nose as he thought back to when Feall first arrived so many weeks ago.

The Faola had attacked him then too, called Feall by name, who responded in turn. Jaron hadn’t noticed it then. Hadn’t notice how casual the exchange was despite lives being on the line.

Feall knew who his attacker was.

"What are they calling you here? Shrike? The Black Knight?"

"Fight me like a man, Feall. There's a score to be settled."

"Many people want to settle scores with me, you'll have to tell me your name first.”

"Rot in Hell."

“You know that I’m not the one who’ll be rotting with the Devils.”

“Feall insists that the attacker was Mireldis Thay, but I didn’t think it was true. People take powerful names all the time,” Jaron mused, shifting his hand to the small of Imogen’s back. “I’m beginning to wonder if maybe I was wrong.”

The movement was subtle, but Jaron had a trained eye. He saw the tiny flicker of Imogen’s hand as it brushed her left collarbone.
Though her wound had healed long ago, Imogen’s shoulder could never quite forget the pain of an arrow wound. Her ghost pains made the occasional appearance. Jaron trained himself to catch the signs of their return.

He guided her away from the busy hallway, and kissed her fingertips, “Are you alright?”

The smile on Imogen’s face was sharp and bitter, nothing like the shy butterfly smiles she’d been flashing not long ago.

She paused for a moment, her hand hovering over her collarbone. Her hand fell to her side. “I can think of quite a few reasons why- if Feall’s claims are right -Thay would want him dead by her own hand.”

Was it wrong that Jaron nodded his head?

Was it wrong that he knew what that lust for revenge tasted like?

Revenge was easy to justify, it was easy to die for, and it was easy to spiral down the wrong path because of it.

Jaron touched Imogen’s face.

“I don’t want to be coddled, Jaron, I want to continue this conversation,” Imogen rolled her shoulders back. “If Feall is right, then we have to consider where Mireldis is coming from.”

“Mireldis might not be alive, too,” Jaron noted, taking great care to keep his pace slow and even.

“Then we find somebody who’s seen her. Who knows her.”

“I, ah, I can think of somebody who might have our answers.”

“Are we thinking of the same person?” Imogen arched her eyebrows.

He made a face, desperate to distract Imogen from feeling her ghost pains again.“Possibly, but just in case, you say your answer first so I can agree with you.”

“Jolly may have what we’re looking for. He seems to know everyone who ever lived.”

“That’s exactly what I was going to say,” Jaron grinned. He looped an arm around Imogen’s waist. “Perhaps we could pay him a visit. With a list of ballads, of course, I have no intention of listening to Ingrithay ever again.”

“Catchy ballad?” asked Imogen, her hand settling atop Jaron’s.

“Catchy and creepy.”

There was blood in the kitchen,
There was-

No! Not again!

There was a time from long, long ago when Jaron’s father would let him play in the corner of his study. . . If Jaron agreed to be quiet. Eckbert had a fondness for yellow citrus in his tea, and Jaron had a fondness for biting into whatever food he could. There would be no forgetting the way that slice of lemon tore through Jaron’s child mouth.

The expression he wore was the equivalent to the face he’d made after realizing how big of a mistake it was to bite into a lemon.

“Careful dear, your face will freeze that way,” Imogen said, patting Jaron’s cheek.

“But would you still love me if my face looked that way? That’s my real concern,” countered Jaron.

“I’d still love you no matter what way your face freezes.”

“Imogen, you’re implying that my face is going to freeze.”

“I’ve seen the expressions you make while explaining what the nobles request.”

Jaron chuckled, he couldn’t deny that. He’d considered becoming a model for gargoyle expressions. They could learn from the deep grimaces he made when reading over suggested policies.

“Would you still love me if I were a miniscule beetle?” He stepped ahead of Imogen, and held open the door to the massive atrium.

She nodded, “I would, in fact. I’d take care of you and make you a little beetle house and give you little crumbs of cake.”

“Promise me you won’t give me lentils. They’re disgusting and bad for beetles.”

“I didn’t realize beetles had specific diets.”

“They don’t, I just don’t want you to feed beetle me any lentils.”

Imogen set her hand over her heart, “I swear I won’t feed you any lentils in the event that you are magically turned into a bug.”

“A beetle Imogen. There’s a difference.”

--------------------------------

Gold sunset light saturated the entire castle. It almost lifted Jaron’s spirits as he looked over each of his regents.

They all stood as he walked into the throne room, flanked by Mott and Harlowe. He held out his hand, prompting them to sit, and sat down in his cushioned chair. Gold sunset light saturated the throne room. One man remained standing. He flashed a small grin at Jaron.

Lord Thomas Row was wearing a splendid hook, but aside from that, wore almost the same clothing that he’d worn the day before. His braided black hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and adorned with a series of elegant beads.

He stood out among the richly dressed regents.

“Your Majesty, I once again must thank you on behalf of Avenia for assisting us during this time,” Row said, bowing deeply.

Jaron dipped his head, “It’s what anyone would do for an ally; for a friend. I’m prepared to hear what you’ve come to say, and I’m prepared to give Avenia aid in any way possible.”

With some exceptions, of course. Jaron refused to turn to dishonesty for as long as he could, he’d seen what happened when somebody was afraid to face the truth.

He’d been a victim of what happened when somebody was afraid to face the truth.

“We pray that all is well in Avenia,” Harlowe said. “Please, tell us of Avenia.”

The regents leaned forward in their chairs; Row rolled his shoulders back. “Your Majesty, regents, Sir Mott, I bring news of mixed success. I am proud to say that the southern region is doing well, we’ve allowed everyone an opportunity to learn to read, and in turn, our now literate farmers have been able to bring us economic success with their imports and exports.

“We’ve seen this pattern throughout the entire country, although this progress hasn’t spread easily through the northern regions. This is where we come for Carthyan aid, King Jaron. There are rumors of revolution in Isel. We haven’t found the cause of these rumors, though we suggest they were put into Iseli heads by an outside source, likely Gelynian or another outside source.

“King Aranscot has long envied Isel and its value. King Kippenger’s reign is still much like an unsteady colt stumbling through its first day, it wouldn’t take much for King Aranscot to topple the entire regime, and plunge Avenia into darkness once again.”

“Are you requesting military assistance, Lord Row?” Jaron asked, his hands clasped in his lap.

Row shook his head, “Not to that extent, your Highness. King Kippenger would feel much better knowing there is at least a small Carthyan presence in Isel.”

Ah, yes, Carthyan influence.

If Jaron played his cards right, he’d be able to fulfill Kippenger’s request without causing any offense. He wouldn’t be able to send Roden, his reputation preceded him, and Roden’s presence would likely invoke more fear than peace.

But if he placed a noble there, one with enough popularity, that could bring Kippenger a new sense of ease.

Renlyn Karise’s name bounced around in his head.

She’d be a valuable asset to Isel, she had property there, and enough power to hire her own army if needed.

However, Renlyn was a good friend to Imogen, and Jaron didn’t have the heart to sever that relationship.

Jaron felt a frown tug at his lips. He scanned the regents, trying to find Tobias for support. “Could you see this unease growing into a call to arms against King Kippenger?”

Tobias gave the slightest nod of his head.

“Perhaps, although we’d rather be safe than sorry, Avenia’s armies would be able to handle the insurgents should any fighting arise,” explained Row. “We hope that Carthya’s presence would be enough to stifle any more talk of revolution.”

“Hope might not be enough, but I am willing to take that risk in order to keep the peace.”

“Your Majesty, please understand that Avenia wants no more war, we fear bloodshed, and we fear the implications it would bring to every realm near the Eranbole sea.”

“I see your concern, Lord Row, and I will do my best to ease this fear,” Jaron held his hand over his heart. “I sense there’s more you have to say?”

Row shifted on his feet. “We’ve heard rumors that Mireldis Thay is in your custody, and though King Kippenger finds chasing rumors the work of a child, he does like to be informed. Is this true?”

Now it was the regents’ turn to all shift in their seats. Harlowe looked to Jaron for permission to speak, “I’m afraid we have only rumors about Lady Thay. There is nothing to fear, the young woman in Carthya’s protection is a bandit named Ayvar.”

“Ah, what a pity, I suppose,” Row sighed, and he held his hook in his hand.

Mott frowned, “Your reaction is vastly different from what’s common.”

“I’ve never been one to accept information without picking it apart.”

“If only more people were like you then, Lord Row,” Jaron said. “However, we are here for Avenia’s sake, not Mireldis Thay’s.”

“You are correct, your Majesty.” Once again, Lord Row bowed. “I shall leave you to discuss my nation’s matters with your regents, but I must ask that you do so with speed. I will not see my people suffer and a nation overthrown because of bureaucratic loopholes.”

Jaron didn’t bother hiding his smirk. It was no secret that Carthyan kings rarely got along with their regents. “My word is final, and my regents understand that.”

“I trust your judgement, King Jaron. If you would wish to speak with me, you know how and where to find me.”

“We will send for you the minute the King’s council has come to an agreement,” Harlowe promised. “Thank you for your time, Lord Row, and take care.”

“Your concern is reassuring, Lord Harlowe. I eagerly await the King’s response.”

The throne room remained silent as every pair of eyes watched Row walk away from them. He might not have been born into his title, but he carried himself with pride.

He carried himself with dignity.

“Your Majesty, I know we have an agreement with Avenia, but-,” began the infamous Mistress Orlaine, who would’ve lost her position as regent ages ago if Jaron didn’t care for his public image. She had the means to turn people against him, and Jaron couldn’t have that.

“But nothing, they are our ally, and if they need help, we will help them,” Jaron cut in. “If my father had been more willing to take action, we wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place. We will stand united in kindness and honesty, not through going back on our word.”

“We can’t send military aid, not without angering King Aranscot, he would think that we are preparing to rise against him,” Harlowe mused. He stroked his salt-and-pepper beard, obviously thinking of a solution.

Jaron drummed his fingers on his knee, “I will think of something, but whatever we do, we must do what we can to help King Kippenger.”

“Why be kind to them? They’re a nation of thieves,” spat another regent, Master Termouthe. “We must honor tradition, your Majesty. Without tradition, we are nothing.”

“And I acknowledge that, Lord Termouthe, I do, but traditions and times change. A nation of thieves cannot change on its own, King Kippenger deserves our support, and it would be selfish of us not to share what we have.”

The regents were becoming fussy. Another elderly mistress grunted. “We could be sharing what we have with our people. Your disregard for royal luxury is fuel for gossip.”

“And yet, I find that facing gossip is much better than leaving men and women to starve in the streets,” Tobias butted in. “This is a matter of Avenian policy, not an opportunity to scrutinize personal choices.”

“Bold words coming from-,” Termouthe’s sentence never finished.

People rarely finished insulting statements when Mott fixed a glare on them.

“Then it’s settled,” Jaron stood up from his chair. “We are sending somebody to Isel to keep the peace. I will call another meeting when I have made my choice.”

Termouthe, Orlaine, and the other dissenters kept their eyes glued to the ground.

“Lord Harlowe, Lord Branch, Sir Mott,” said Jaron, clasping his hands behind his back. “I would very much like to discuss our options in private.”

“You are dismissed,” Harlowe gestured from the regents to the wide, open doors.

Each regent stood, bowed, and walked out a little too slowly for Jaron’s taste. They were trying to stay and hear what he had to say.

But they would hear nothing that would advance their agendas.

“Mott, do you know anything about Commander Regar? Did you talk to him at all?” Jaron asked, pacing from his throne to Tobias’s chair, to Harlowe, and back to his throne. “Is he still here?”

Mott set his ankle on his knee, leaning back into his charge in the process. “I spoke with him as best I could, but I know him, Jaron. He’s clean.”

No matter how much time Jaron spent with Mott, there were still so many things he didn’t know about him.

“Don’t you find it odd that Lord Row asked about Mireldis Thay?” Tobias pointed out. He was sitting almost as straight as the back of his chair. “I doubt Row has ever met her.”

Commander Regar.

Regar, Regar, Regar.

Saints be cursed, something was staring at him right in the face. Jaron was smart, why was he still struggling with this puzzle?

“I’ll have to add that to my list of questions,” Jaron grunted.

Tobias shifted, “List of questions?”

“Imogen and I have an idea that a mutual friend of ours may know more than we’d expect. We’re going to pay him a visit.”

“He plays a lute and wears colors that murder the eyes, doesn’t he?”

Jaron nodded, “You’re correct, and I will come back with answers, or I won’t come back at all.”

A bold promise, but Jaron knew what he was capable of. His mind was beginning to get ahead of him, he was dreaming of all the possibilities awaiting him.

Perhaps he was wrong about everything, and there was no need to have an entire gang of morally grey thieves be thrown into the dungeon.

Or maybe he and Imogen were right. Maybe Mireldis Thay had come to Carthya with every intention to slaughter Feall, or die trying.

A crime punishable by death.

“Jaron, I do hate to backtrack,” Harlowe inhaled. “But I would propose that we station a small company of soldiers in Libeth, just in case the situation in Avenia goes wrong. It would be much easier to mobilize forces from there than from here.”

“That-, that’s not a half bad idea, actually. Ah, Harlowe, you’re far too brilliant to be working with these regents.”

“As are you, my king.”

Jaron waved the comment away, “I’ll speak with Roden about moving soldiers. Aranscot will likely figure our movements out, but he has nothing to do with the unrest in Isel, then he’ll leave us alone. If he does have something to do with the unrest, then we have our answer.”

“Isn’t it nice when things are straightforward?” Hummed Tobias, who’d begun rubbing his temples. “We’ll be able to move onto our next item of business once the troops are placed, there won’t be any secrets about it.”

Any secrets.

Several of Jaron’s policies were ridiculed by many of the regents. They mocked the way he kept things in the open. But it was because of honesty that Carthya was beginning to thrive.

“Is the castle going to be involved in this year’s Blackberry Night?” Tobias was chipping away at every detail he could.

“I’ll think about it,” Jaron shrugged. “We’ve had a festival already, and Blackberry Night gets a little too wild for my taste.”

“The festival was weeks ago, Amarinda and I could coordinate it, and maybe it’ll draw in-“

“I said I’d think about it, Tobias.”

There were grander things to worry about than a party. Things with more benefits than gaining favor with regents who’d hate Jaron til either he died, or they died.

Mott accompanied him as he excused himself from the tiny meeting. They’d formed a pact in the dead of night not long ago to check in on Feall after the recent attack. They’d also both agreed to keeping Tobias indoors for a few days. Both Mott and Jaron clung to their promises for as long as they could, but eventually Amarinda left with Queen Danika’s investigators to search for Mireldis Thay, and nothing on earth could keep Tobias from going with her.

Mystic and Mott’s mare were already saddled and waiting to be ridden.

“Market day is going to happen shortly before the Morning of the Saints,” Mott said as he and Jaron stepped into the castle courtyard.

“Are you trying to start a debate about my church attendance with me?” Jaron countered. He had enough on his mind. Mystic stamped his foot as Jaron swung into the saddle. “You’re just like Imogen.”

“On the contrary, I’m only stating a fact. Market day technically is starting before the Morning of the Saints.”

“Too many holidays, too little time. I’d like to take a nap for a month or two.”

Mott clicked at his mare, leading the way out of the courtyard. “You’re doing a good job, Jaron. There’s a lot to deal with, and you’re doing your best.”

“Thanks,” he mumbled.

He didn’t want to admit how much he valued Mott’s approval.

Jaron uttered a silent prayer of thanks; he’d left his circlet behind, which meant he didn’t need to nod at each person who bowed to him. The streets were almost crammed, but not enough to render travel useless.

“You know, I’ve been thinking about all of these holidays,” Jaron grinned. “Maybe I should set aside a day where I can forget about my duties and remain calm.”

“There’s nothing stopping you from doing that now,” Mott guided his horse a few steps closer to Jaron. A carriage thundered past.

They were nearing the middle level of Drylliad, it wouldn’t be long until they were at the lower levels. Feall would have to be there somewhere.

“You know what, you’re absolutely right.”

“I typically am, people don’t like listening.”

“That’s because your version of ‘right’ isn’t nearly as fun as mine.”

“Strange, I’d thought my version of ‘right’ was better than yours because it typically means you don’t return to the castle with a black eye.”

Jaron inhaled deeply and leaned as far back as he could, his face turned to the sky. He couldn’t think of a response, as Mott’s argument couldn’t be countered without sounding like a blithering fool. Instead, he groaned.

“That’s what I thought,” Mott chuckled.

Children with bandages on their feet darted across the cobblestones, chasing after a striped lizard. A woman’s fashionable right boot flew through the air, caught by a pair of grubby child’s hands. Girls in tattered red rags waved from shattered windows. Lower Drylliad was often forgotten by nobles.

They didn’t want to get their hands dirty.

Didn’t want to help those born into a pigpen.

Mott sat a little straighter in his saddle. “This seems more like Roden’s route.”

“I think they switched patrol times,” Jaron racked his brain as he struggled to remember the last time Roden had told him about what he was up to. “With Feall patrolling during the day, it keeps him safe from his attacker. And Roden was very keen on being able to spend his afternoons either beating me at sparring or teaching Nila how to properly use a sword.”

“Probably makes it easier to avoid you, too.”

“Very true, which isn’t really that great, as I’ve been meaning to-,” Jaron gagged, “-apologize to him.”

“Consider me impressed, I know how much you hate doing that.”

Feall wasn’t far ahead, his jacket rested on his shoulders, dirt stained his white shirt. He waved. A large man with a full scarlet beard was gently tossing some of the children into the air. Jaron recognized him; Commander Regar was too massive to forget

“Have you come to visit me?” Feall joked. “Commander, show some respect to the king.”

Regar nodded his head to Jaron and Mott, nodded to the children he’d been throwing, and stood by Feall.

A man sized like Regar would have no problems holding his own against three men.

“We did, but unfortunately, I forgot to bring you flowers,” Jaron wiped away an imaginary tear. “Have you had any trouble, Feall?”

He shook his head, “Not exactly, I did have to separate a pair of urchins as they fought over a shoe.”

Regar gave no comment, which annoyed Jaron to no end.

What was it with people and not reacting to anything?

“Was it a woman’s shoe?” asked Mott, gesturing to the howling children several steps away.