[game-notes version here]

XI.

Duskmarch 12, Stillday, Year 731.

The Heart & Dagger tavern crouched near the lakeshore, its weathered sign showing a bleeding heart pierced by a long, crooked dagger. The sign hung limply in the nighttime rain, lit by two guttering, smoky torches that did their best to survive the weather.

Inside, low lanterns lit oak beams black with soot, and the air stank of smoke, ale, and spiced fish. Dunfolk traders, off-duty Iron Thorn enforcers, and a half-dozen loud drunks all competed to be heard over the constant din. Candle stubs flickered merrily atop crowded tables, their wax pooling on warped old boards.

From their back table, Vessa scanned the entrance for the hundredth time, muttering something under her breath. Her once-shaved black hair had grown to a short, boyish cut, showcasing her sharp, freckled face. Her appearance was marred only by the bent nose and, currently, a purpling black eye.

Vessa caught Maelen looking at her and muttered something. Maelen, for her part, smiled and leaned back in her chair languidly, appreciating the full tavern. She enjoyed the vibrancy of the Heart & Dagger, its energy. She was able to appreciate the buzz of tavern life so much more since her long sleep.

“He’s late!” Vessa called over the din.

“Why wouldn’t show?” the warrior grinned, all teeth. “You say he’s been asking you to a meal for two months! Maybe the boy is smitten!”

“It’s not like that,” Vessa said, defensively crossing her arms. “He sent four letters. Maybe five.”

“Ha! He’ll come, lass,” she smiled wide, and with a meaty hand slapped Vessa across the shoulder. She rocked to one side by the good-natured blow.

A small brown mouse scampered across Maelen’s shoulder and curled into the crook of her elbow. The square-jawed woman’s face softened, like a doting mother. With a thick finger, she stroked the fur between Tatter’s head and shoulders. The little creature probably wouldn’t live another year, she thought ruefully, given the general lifespan of mice. Well, she’d enjoy their time together now. After all, who knew how much time any of them had waiting for them? Her last excursion proved that point well enough.

She wasn’t sure how much time passed before Vessa announced, “He’s here!” and stood. Then, almost immediately, she slid back to sitting in her chair. Maelen saw the shocked look on her face and peered through the smoky darkness of the common room to follow her gaze.

Alric was much transformed in the two months since she’d seen him. He was still tall, his dark hair long and falling on broad shoulders. His skin was now so pale that it seemed almost white, and he wore dark robes, glistening in torchlight with wetness from the rain. He crossed the room with the same uneven gait, leaning harder on his walking stick. One by one, drinkers eased aside—some instinct, Maelen thought, catching the quiet hint of menace beneath his kind face.

As he arrived at the table, Tatter scampered across Maelen’s arm and to her lap, disappearing into the pouch there she used to carry him. The boy leaned his stick against the edge of their table, and, in the flickering candlelight, Maelen could see arcane runes carved across the full length of the wood. In addition, she could now see a circlet of blackened metal, half crown and half thorn-briar, shadowed his brow.

The scribe lowered himself to a seat across from them and nodded a greeting. His handsome face looked timid and pleased when he greeted Vessa, and she shot back a quip about his tardiness. Maelen couldn’t help but chuckle at the awkwardness between these two. She’d been right about the lad being smitten, and Vessa didn’t know how to handle it, or even perhaps to recognize it.

When he turned his dark eyes to Maelen he said in a rich baritone, “It’s good to see you up. How are you feeling?”

She raised a mug and took a long draught. “It’s good to be up, lad! You’re looking…” she waved a hand. “Different.”

“Am I?” he said with genuine confusion, looking down to examine himself. “Oh, new robes, yes. And you! Any lingering effects from Sarin’s touch? Other than the hair, of course.”

Maelen brushed fingers through her hair reflexively at the comment. One of her locks had turned gray from the Nightwight’s touch, a permanent reminder of her failure in Thornmere Hold. The battle ate at her. Both young ones could be dead because of it, saved only by Vessa’s skill with a bow, the lad’s resolve, and luck. “Just the hair,” she said, maybe a touch too harshly.

“Well,” he smiled. “I’m glad. And you, Vessa? Did you take a fall?”

“Fight,” she scowled, shooting Maelen a look. Maelen hid a smile. She’d started the brawl, but Vessa had taken the bruises. Only later did they learn their foes included a noble’s son. Now the City Watch wanted Vessa for “disturbing the peace.” “It’s fine. Just a black eye.”

The scribe looked startled for a moment, concerned. “Oh, well. I’m glad to hear you’re okay.”

“What have you been up, lad?” Maelen pushed a tankard to him across the table. “Locked away, reading that book?”

“Yes, actually,” he smiled, and took a dainty sip from the mug. “It’s called The Tome of Unlit Paths, and it’s truly fascinating. I have a good chunk of it translated, but translating it is only the first step, of course. The very ideas therein are dense ones, requiring a good deal of research into the history of this city and wider region. It was written, it seems, by a blind prophet who preached that sight itself is a lie. Imagine! A blind man writing script in his own blood! He worshipped Orthuun–called him a ‘true god’ above Oakton’s deities.”

Maelen grunted. Vessa rolled her eyes and stifled a yawn.

Alric, cheeks flushed, pressed on. “Dense work, very dense. Much of the writing is difficult to understand, honestly, but the insights into arcane practice are more than revelatory. In fact…” he took another sip, and doing so allowed him, apparently, to see the blank looks on their faces. “Ah, well. That’s all boring nonsense to you, of course. Suffice it to say, yes. I’ve had my nose buried in the book. And many scrolls, besides. The Lodge is equally annoyed and pleased with me, though of course they don’t know about our, ah… excursion.”  

He chuckled, then leaned forward to them. This close, Maelen could see the intricate pattern of his headgear. “I admit. I began to think I’d never seen you both again. What, pray tell, inspired this gathering?”

“What?” Vessa answered sharply. “We can’t just catch up?”

“We’re broke,” Maelen grinned, even as Vessa huffed and crossed her arms. “And getting out of town for a bit isn’t the worst thing, besides. We’re thinking of going back to visit our friend Sarin and get his treasure, and wondered if maybe you wanted to tag along.”

“B-broke!?” Alric gasped, eyes wide. “How can that be?” He lowered his voice, showing he’d learned since the last time they’d been at this table two months before. “What about all of the, the– gold?”

“We’ve paid off our debt to the Latchkey Circle,” Maelen said. “And with the rest, well…”

“It’s not important,” Vessa said quickly, scowling. Maelen chuckled. Her friend had never met a silver thorn she couldn’t gamble, smoke, drink, or whore away. Apparently gold crowns only meant bigger nights. Maelen had awoken from her long sleep to find their debts paid and coffers gone. The last two weeks had been lean.

The scribe’s eyes flicked between them, reading the situation. He looked at Vessa and pursed his lips, and Maelen thought he’d probably guessed the story. “Oh, I see. Well, Maelen, there’s no guarantee that what Sarin guards is treasure. This Orthuun, this Blind Sovereign, doesn’t seem to care about wealth. It could just as easily be the Nightwight’s bones when he died, or his old uniform, or something else nostalgic that’s buried there.”

“See?” Vessa shot Maelen a look. “I told you. There are safer ways to make coin.”

“If there were,” Maelen growled. “We would be excluded from knowing about them from the Circle. Our debts are paid, but they don’t want to help us, Vess. How many jobs have we gotten this month?”

“So we’re treasure hunters now?” She sat back, sulking. “Sleeping in the twice-cursed woods and fighting zombies?”

Now it was Maelen’s turn to lean forward. She grabbed Vessa’s sleeve and hissed. “That little jaunt brought us more coin than we’ve ever seen! And you’ve got a warrant on your head!”

“Fine,” Vessa pulled her arm away.

A sudden commotion at the door snapped Maelen’s head around. There, a middle-aged man with his back bent by labor called out into the common room while a trio of younger men tried belligerently to quiet him. Others in the tavern had paused their conversations to see what the fuss was about, allowing everyone to hear the man’s words.

“Alric? Alric Mistsong!? I was told Alric Mistsong would be dining here tonight!”

The scribe blinked at the words and stood. As he did so, the yelling man’s gaze swiveled directly to him. He shouldered past the younger men, grinning, while nearby patrons murmured and craned for a better view.

“There he is!” the man whooped happily, pulling an empty stool over to their table and settling into it. He wore plain homespun clothes. An intelligent but unremarkable face showed receding hair and sun-spotted skin. The man slapped the scarred wood, making their mugs jump. “Alric Mistsong!” This close, Maelen could see that his mouth was missing many of its teeth, causing his speech to lisp somewhat. “Do you remember me, son?”

Alric looked him over, and then suddenly recognition bloomed across his features. “The man at the Root Gate! Back in Frostmere, was it?”

The man laughed and slapped the table again. Across the tavern, people decided there was no show to be had and returned to their own conversations. “You do remember! Yessir. Fooled those guards when they were goin’ to arrest your friends here. Clever work, that.” He wagged an index finger in Alric’s direction.

“What’s your name, sir?” Alric asked, obviously still on edge but keeping his face calm. Maelen had always appreciated the lad’s spine.

“Hadren’s my name. Hadren Kelthorn. My, look at you! Coming into your own with this magic now, aren’t you?”

“Excuse me?” Alric said, his features growing in intensity.

“That’s a fine circlet you’ve wrought,” the man grinned, peering at Alric’s forehead. “And runes on the staff. My, my. A proper sorcerer now, aren’t you? Enjoying Orthuun’s favor?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the lad said, leaning forward. “Who are you?”

“But the Tome,” Hadren continued, as if Alric hadn’t spoken. He practically hissed the word. “It’s not yours, you see. ‘The hand that opens the path is not the hand that owns it; the path itself is the master, and it will choose whom it keeps.’”

It was if the man had slapped Alric. His face rocked back, eyes bulging. “How– how?”

“Come find me at the Starless Rift, Alric Mistsong, south of where you,” The man jabbed a finger at the lad with each word. “Stole. My. Book.” Then he smiled a gap-toothed smile. “Ask anyone in the dark, they’ll tell you how to find it. If it’s wealth your friends need, I’ll trade you for what’s rightfully mine. After all, ‘gold is only light trapped in metal, and the dark will melt it like morning frost,’ eh? Where we go, son, coin is but a candle to the night.”

Maelen could sense violence brewing and was done with this madman’s ranting, so she cracked her neck and moved to stand. Vessa, always able to pick up her cues, reached for the shortsword at her hip. Hadren seemed to sense it, too, and held up both hands placatingly. Maelen and Vessa paused.

“Bring me the Tome. At the Starless Rift. You can have treasure and more for your troubles. But don’t dawdle.” Then he turned to Maelen and winked.

In a heartbeat Hadren Kelthorn collapsed into himself. His skin split to soot, his robes dissolving into black ash that sifted down like spilled flour. Maelen jumped to her feet and back, her chair knocked to the floor. Vessa and Alric did the same.

Silence swept the Heart & Dagger as the three of them froze in alarm. Maelen stared at the empty stool where Hadren had been sitting moments before.

All around the chair, black ash had landed in a perfect circle upon the floor.

Next: Leandra’s Rest [with game notes]