Regaining Home

Regaining Home

Alana Abbott

* * * * *

Original edition published by Virgil and Beatrice at Smashwords

Copyright © 2015 by Alana Joli Abbott

Cover image by Lindsay Archer http://lindsayarcher.com/

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The Wild Way, Just outside Serlian

Tunir, Second Week of Mendul, 4625

Later, they couldn’t agree who moved first. The flames bathing Serlian grabbed them all, drew them forward like moths, and their momentum was less a panicked ride than the surge of a wave toward shore—as though all four of them believed that if they could just move fast enough, they could quench the flames. They could save the city, the place that had become their home.

But in some moments no amount of belief can change reality, and the soot filling the sky told the truth of the damage Serlian suffered beyond the Wild Way, and beyond the heroes that raced toward disaster.

From the Book of the Reach as recorded in the Age of Darkness

An excerpt penned by Seth Joralon, Exile of Our People from the years 4548 through 4682, by the will of the Council

The following selection is taken from his recordings in the year 4625

To the attention of the Council,

Near the city of Serlian is a large hill, a place I often come to look over the flat expanse of land that separates the Brightwood, still visible in the distance on a clear day, from the hills that form the moorland of the Reach. The city itself is always abuzz with life, people going about their daily routines without much thought to the dangers that surround them. I suppose that’s why I often come here; ’tis a lonely place, the Reach, and I sometimes yearn for the company of folk, big or small, kind or crotchety.

They are a hard people, Reachers, and take what comes as it arrives, because ’tis senseless to worry about what new troubles the next day might bring. In 4610, ‘twas a pack of necrutaa—Necru’s hounds—summoned by some cootris wizard in the moors trying to bring himself back to glory, as has happened an uncounted number of times since I began my exile. In 4617, ’twas the weather itself: the rain came down as ice for nearly a month with no sunshine, killing nearly all the crops surrounding the city, making the roads slick and the air so cold that people broke their furniture to burn for fuel once they ran out of firewood. In 4622, ’twas a werewolf who didn’t know he’d been cursed--managed to murder six people before he realized the truth and killed himself.

’Tis 4625, and already a plague of undead attacked some of the city-folk just outside of Serlian. I’ve written the details of why that happened, which I hope you’ve received, and where the undead followed next (nearly wiping out the entire city of Erflynton). I imagine the Reachers figured they were due a little break, having already had a crisis for the year. Even I thought we’d have some calm, at least until the Quartet returned, and I had my doubts about them as well. Folk don’t always come back after they’ve left the Reach. Oh, Taru Skyshadow, the Tylvare priest, would have to return to follow his calling. He discovered Isidrian Quarry fairly early this year, and any Tylvare that found a place like that would know it to be a calling from one god or another—in his case, Ratiss, though I’m sure all the Alari had a hand in it. Lydia DuShain I thought likely to return as well. For a girl who grew up as a lady knight, she’s taken well to life in Serlian, and if she didn’t end up executed back in her homeland, she’d be back. She also had an eye or two on Kennerly Rosseau, who I worried after. They say you can take the Sky Knight out of Aurod, but you can’t take Aurod out of the Sky Knight, and I have no doubt that boy will need to flying again.

Nara al’Sheed is a whole different story, and this new rash of chaos is like to be her fault. That all four of them came back in time to see it—well, I don’t know if that’s luck, good or bad, or whether ’twas planned that way, just to cause them heartache. I can’t believe that even old Zychariss the lich could plan what happened with that level of precision—but you know what I think of him. Most powerful necromancer in all of Eranon, my left eye. Then again, underestimating my opponents has always been a particular flaw of mine, as you’ve no doubt got recorded in the Book where I’ll never see it. Either way, the destruction wrought here has his signature all over it. Before al’Sheed got here, he had no noticeable interest in the Reach, so I have to think his particular attentions are due to their quarrel. I can safely say that if he acts this strongly for the sake of his own entertainment, we may be a lot closer to the next war than the Hethmarkn analysts once assured me was the case—and if so….

But I get ahead of myself, and you’ve always reminded me to tell the story first and draw conclusions after. In all my years on the Reach, I have never seen anything like it. At first, I might have compared it to the flight of a squadron of Sky Knights soaring over Aurod, but as they neared, I saw they were anything but. The sinister atmosphere following them like a mist coming between sun and ground, the flapping sound of their wings like leather dragged against a grate—these were something I had seen before, but never with armored riders. They were Lavrixes, sure, beasts made of corpses that fair scream as the air passes through them; the faces of those trapped in the infernal creatures look out from their torment and see nothing, souls captured and frozen like ice. Like the griffons of Aurod, the creatures that flew over the city had riders on their backs, and like the griffons, they work darkness like a cloak around them, despite the sunlight making its way through the clouds. That’s all they had in common. A flight of griffons means hope; Lavrixes are flying nightmares, throwing terror down from the heights just as their riders tossed flames.

Whether ’twas magic or alchemy, I couldn’t tell from the distance. At first, I thought it mightn’t be too bad, if ’twere just fire. But the fires expanded more quickly than they should have, and by the time the creatures had turned ’round to fly the other way, I was on my feet and dashing down toward the city of Serlian, pony in tow. I know the rule: we Linquasi are observers, to be sure. I even act inside of it most of the time. But here I was, sitting on a hillside, with the only city on the Reach lit up like a Full Harvest bonfire. I couldn’t sit and watch while it burned to the ground—and before you start to chastise, remember that if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have seen the arrival of the Quartet. Thus, with full honesty of my motivations acknowledged, I hope the Council will see fit to condone my interference and refrain from adding another seven years to my exile.

The closest well to the hill is at Old Barsun’s place, and by the time I arrived, the O’Dwyers, who have lived there so long now it’s surprised their name hasn’t replaced the former resident’s, were already hauling up buckets and loading them into a cart to town. I hitched my pony to a second wagon. Gren O’Dwyer learned the value of stockpiling buckets back in the fire of 4502, and even now that his farm is run by his children, and his grandchildren are swarming around his knees, he has a mind to keep all those old buckets that got made during the rains of 4514 and store them in his barn. We could have filled six carts before running out, so young Juliana, in all the wisdom of the eight years she’s got, started her sibs and cousins running the extra buckets to the Kreef Ranch, which has the next closest well.

About the time young Juliana was acting on her plan, my little wagon was full up, so I encouraged my little moor pony to move quick as she could into the city. I could feel the heat wafting from the fires, stinging my face as I got closer. Wes O’Dwyer was directing folks and organizing a chain for the buckets; he told me to keep order and turned his emptied cart around to head back for more. I started handing buckets down the chain, but I knew right then ’twas too late; we wouldn’t be able to stand the heat much longer and the city would burn to the ground. That’s when the rain started.

The funny thing about Reachers is that they won’t tell you a thing about their lives, though they’re cordial enough, but if you’ve lost a swarl, they’ll be out in packs to help you look for it. You could live next door to someone for years and never speak more than two words about the weather to them, but if your door gets ripped off its hinges by quad-men, they’ll invite you in to stay, often giving up their own beds, until the Watch can get rid of the monsters. It’s not just Serlian, either. Out on the Reach you’ll find the same. So long as you’re not intending to kill other folk or rob them blind (we get our share of bandits, just like anywhere else), they’ll share their campfire and a meal, or make room in a shelter ’til the Vire that’s been hunting you has lost your trail.

As best I can figure, the rain came from some Reacher that lives outside of Serlian, some Merthwarg who came into the wild to try to tame the land, or because her old grove died, or because her studies didn’t go well—any of the normal reasons folk come to the Reach. Once things are settled, I’ll get after looking for her, so I can learn her story.

About the same time the rain started to fall, the Quartet, followed by a Druegarn named Shiaree Dbrov, came into view. Between buckets, I watched Dbrov float several little glowing orbs from her hand to hover above the fire. They melted almost instantly, sending small cascades of water dripping down on the flames. She could shoot them faster than we could move the buckets, small though they were, and by herself she managed to calm an entire rooftop and keep the fire from spreading. DuShain, Rosseau, and al’Sheed moved into the line of buckets, replacing tired city folk as if the three of them were fresh from their beds rather than worn from the road.

Taru Skyshadow looked angrily at the city for a long moment. I suspect he felt betrayed that the power of his god had been harnessed by those who wished to do so much harm, that the cleansing force of Ratiss had been corrupted into purposeful destruction. But ’twas only a moment, and then he walked into the city. Slowly, one step at a time, he moved down the road, his arms opened toward the fiery rooftops. As he walked, the fire leapt down from its heights and clung to him, then vanished. I nearly dropped my bucket as I watched it happen again and again. The fire didn’t burn him—’twas as though he absorbed it, calling it to his mortal form and wrapping it ’round his soul. He looked back once and his eyes glowed with flames; his long hair looked as though, like Ratiss’s, ’twas made of fire itself.

Between the rain, Dbrov’s ice, our water buckets, and whatever holy power it was that Skyshadow harnessed, it didn’t take much longer for the fires to vanish. But the flying creatures and their riders accomplished what they set out to do. Most of Serlian is now ruined in one way or another, and the fire touched almost every building. Those trapped in the center of town during initial bursts of flame are dead, and many of the wounded have followed, despite the best efforts of town priest Adellyn Moshuon. Skyshadow was unable to do any more than he already accomplished; as the last fire fled the rooftops, those near him at the time report that he collapsed into a heap, and that steam rose off of him as the rain continued to fall.

But the Reachers did as Reachers always do, and those whose homes weren’t hurt quite so badly invited in those whose were. Nan Findley the undertaker did her best to mind the dead. Most were burned too badly for recognition, but those who died from smoke were laid out so folks could say goodbye. Most Reachers don’t hold with resurrections, but there’s always one or two at a funeral who take a lock of hair for safe keeping, in case they ever decide to bring their loved one back from Limbo.

Reachers who aren’t grieving are already starting to recover. Even that first day, I heard jokes about how going home would be more like camping now, because you could see the sky through the roof. I heard others talk about how they’d show the hermits out on the Reach that even city folk could live like true Reachers, exposed to the elements.

Given the work I’ve already seen from Johnny Twostep, Wes O’Dwyer, and Linyse Orlyne, I imagine the city will be back on its feet in not too long. Wes O’Dwyer should be headed on toward being elected mayor come year’s end, though I wouldn’t wish that job on anyone. Assuming, of course, that this attack won’t be followed by something even worse, which is where I’m concerned. Considering that Nara al’Sheed and the rest of the Quartet are back in Serlian, there’s no guarantee that’s so. Zychariss is like to strike again. The trouble will be figuring out what that old undead wizard is up to over in the Mountains of Madness. No one, not even Istolil Hune, has ever been able to get one step ahead of the lich.

Though I know my optimism is yet another of my flaws, I can’t help but think there’s a first time for everything. I hope this letter serves to inspire the Council to action; I may be an Exile, but I’m exiled to a place where things are happening, and they may start happening fast. If my hunch is right, and the next war is closer than projected, it’ll be here that it starts. Because, as I heard murmured by some of the more suspicious, if the intent had been to burn the whole city down—it would have hardly taken another couple flights back and forth ’cross the city. Some feel we’ve been let off easy thus far, that this was a warning. I’ve heard mutters that the reason we’re still standing is because the one who sent the Lavrix Riders, as we’re calling them, wants the city for himself. And if that’s so—well, it’ll take a lot more than just Reacher spirit to stop him.

I hope you’ll again reconsider my request for reinforcements. There are stories to be collected out here by the droves. ’Tis true the place can make you a bit mad, no denying. But better a little bit of madness here and now than the Mountains of Madness getting extended territory later.

As always, I remain,

Your humble servant,

Seth Joralon

Linquasi Exile

Serlian, The Last Outpost

Tunir, Second Week of Mendul, 4625

As soon as the fires were out, the sense of urgency and determined movement left Serlian. In its wake, dumbfounded city folk wandered aimlessly, unsure how to cope with the change in landscape. The farmers from outside the city stuck around, performing the age old task of looking at the damages.

Kennerly’s uncle had a farm outside of Eord, and when he was very young, his father sent him to stay on the farm instead of accompanying him on fishing trips up Karis River to Dagger Bay. Kennerly remembered a terrible hail storm at the end of one summer. While his uncle’s farm more or less avoided the damage, the whole family packed into a cart the next day, to travel the countryside and see what happened to their neighbors’ farms. Part of the impulse behind it was good will, because those who got hurt the worst were the ones who needed neighborly support the coming harvest. But part of the impulse was the same Kennerly saw on the faces of the people who lived outside of the city as they wandered the streets of Serlian—an analytical curiosity and internal gratitude that while they’d help when it came time, thank the gods it wasn’t them needing help!

Despite living in Serlian, despite it being his home—and his uncle’s farm rarely entered his thoughts—Kennerly found himself wandering around in the same mindset. Everything seemed to be happening to someone else. He wandered, looking for wounded yet to be found, like the other members of the City Watch that Johnny Twostep managed to cobble together for orders. But he wasn’t focused and found no one.

His feet carried him toward the barracks. He tried to hold the image of Lydia’s garden, the kitchen, the chess board, the mess of cups and bowls left around common spaces whenever he and Lydia returned from scouting trips. The building could hardly be the same place he remembered. Most of it stood only as tall as a halfling, the roof sunken had crumbled to the ground inside. If there were once a table and chairs inside—he remembered them—no trace remained. He kicked at a pile of ashes and turned over a little marble chess piece, a black pawn, buried inside. In order to reach it, he had to kneel—his armor didn’t bend well around the middle—and once it was in his gauntlet he stared at it, turning it over as though it contained some mystery, an answer floating just beyond his comprehension.

When he stood, he heard a sob, purposefully muffled, and knew Lydia was there. He exited the broken building to where Lydia’s garden had been. Now it was only a patch of dry earth, and Lydia sat on the edge of it, mutt of a dog next to her, looking at a still form on the ground. He crossed the distance before he realized he was moving, and when he stopped, staring down at the body, the world seemed to stop with him.

I think he got tossed, Lydia said quietly, her voice quivering. There’s a gouge in the garden where whatever set the place on fire was thrown down. He must have been cutting through it from the well, trying to keep the barracks from taking so much damage. Kennerly said nothing, though he heard her clearly enough, and the silent pause weighed heavily on them. Then she laughed in a strangled sort of way, the sob hiding just behind it. That’s just like Micah though. He always has… had to prove himself because he’s the only halfling on the Watch. I kept meaning to make sure he got down to Erflynton to meet the sheriff. He would have liked to meet a halfling sheriff, I think.

Her voice broke on the last word, the sob finally breaking loose of her hold. The dog leaned into her, and she buried her hand in its mangy coat. Kennerly clanked down beside her and fumbled with his helmet, as though the visor was keeping him from seeing what was real. Micah couldn’t be dead, of course. That was foolishness. But when the helmet was off and he could see the world around him on both sides, Micah was still there, laying still, looking drained of everything that made him Micah.

And then the world was blurry, and he realized in the same detached fashion that something had finally gotten through. Lydia’s hand reached to his cheek to brush away his tears, but he held her hand there, because it felt real against his skin. There, in the safety of her company, it all crashed in on him—the damage, the homes lost, the lives just gone in the place he planned to come home to. Guilt for having thought of abandoning the city to go back to Aurod crawled in next to the grief and settled there. He put his arm around Lydia’s shoulders, letting her hand drop from his face as she leaned into him. The dog put its head on her lap, and she absently scratched it between the ears.

We’ll have to tell his mother, she said after a while. Both her face and voice were dry. Kennerly nodded and squeezed, his armor creaking against hers. Before the fire, he’d been anxious to get here, go back to his room and wash away the grime of the road, exchange his armor for fresh clothes. Now he was caked in soot and sweat, and in no way prepared to bear a body to a grieving parent.

I’ll carry him, he said, standing. He reached for his helmet, then decided to leave it there, at the edge of the ruined garden. He dropped the black pawn inside, and as the metal clanged a mournful note, he scooped up the broken body of the only halfling member of the Watch and started walking. Lydia walked next to him, matching his stride, and her mutt trailed behind them.

* * * * *

Though Taru did not dream, his sleep was active. He was aware, even as his body rested, that Ratiss stirred within him, bright as a bonfire. The flames moved through his limbs, danced on his ribs, cascaded through his mind, drawn by the beating of his pulse to the center of his body. There, one by one, they returned to Ratiss, to the plane of their birth, renewed so they could be used to purify and cleanse, not destroy. Their dance flowed through him, like the beating of drums, and he felt his soul wail in chorus, singing the chant that would take them home. When all were gone but one, the dance stopped, and that small flame burned inside him, a reminder, a focus, and a center. He opened his eyes.

The Temple of Ramlar soared above him, light pouring in through the branched ceiling as it swept into the heavens. Through the corners of his eyes, he could see the pews had been moved away and the still forms of the wounded lay in rows upon rows in the temple’s sanctuary. As he struggled to rise, a shadow fell over him, and Adellyn Moshuon, the priest of Ramlar and keeper of the temple, crouched next to him. The older priest helped Taru lean upward to slide another pillow under the Tylvare’s head. Once Taru was comfortable, Moshuon offered him a much needed drink of water. After a moment, he handed the drained canteen back and looked up at Moshuon.

Many say that fire and water are opposites, Taru said quietly. This isn’t true. They have the same purpose but achieve it differently. Both have power, and both can be ruthless, but their intent is to cleanse.

Moshuon simply nodded, watching Taru’s face until Taru needed to look away. Light poured in through the skylights, turning the bits of dust in the air into jewels. Do you want to talk about it? Moshuon asked finally, and Taru sighed.

The fire was wrong, he said slowly. He wasn’t sure how to shape the words, even in his native language, to describe what he had done. He thought he understood it, though he knew magic didn’t work the way he’d use it. In the moment, it seemed the fire should listen to him, that the fire had no power unless he told it that it did. He was a servant of Ratiss, and fire should bend before him. I told it so.

Moshuon put a hand on Taru’s head, and the young elf felt the chill of his elder’s fingers. What you did wasn’t possible, Taru, said the old Fetharn. Nothing like that has ever been done before, in any of the tales I’ve heard.

The fire within him stirred. Just as he had in the forest, he again saw the threads of color that showed where the Alari flowed. He sat up without the help of Moshuon and watched as the colors traveled to their statues, settling there. He never saw them outside of dreams before, but now he could see the colors so clearly he was amazed he could have missed them. Perhaps it had not been that way until he saw it, as though the seeing made it real.

You began to move the stones, he said with certainty, and Moshuon nodded, still looking concerned. Taru smiled at him broadly. I need to dance the hill, to tell the stones where they need to go.

Moshuon stared at Taru, then laughed. If you’re feeling up to dancing, I could use your help here. I have more wounded than I can help.

Taru noticed a number of young people, dressed in robes of various colors, offering water and comfort to those on the ground. There were more with the healing gifts in town than I realized, Moshuon said, sounding pleased with himself. Most are new, and a few were passing through on their way to the ends of the Reach. I imagine some might even think of staying. But none have your gift for it, Taru. Not even me.

Taru watched the colors flow into the temple for a moment and felt more than saw the streak of deep orange that surrounded him. The flame inside him jumped, and he nodded to Moshuon, stood, and helped the old elf to his feet. Then he walked among the injured, looking for the worst off. He drew on the brilliance that surrounded him and the flame within and began to heal.

* * * * *

The doorframe crumbled beneath Nara’s fingers, and her lips pursed.

Nara? Shiaree’s voice almost cut through the anger churning inside her. Almost. Nara pulled her hand away from the door and ran her thumb along her fingers, turning the char of the wood into dust.

Shiaree, she said slowly, is there any magic in the area?

The Druegarn wizard closed her eyes, her tiny braids catching in the soot-filled breeze that wandered aimlessly through the streets of Serlian. The wizard nodded, her eyes still closed, as she concentrated. With a sigh, Nara stepped inside, waiting for the roof to collapse on her.

Thatch, she thought, was a bad idea. If you set fire to clay, it only baked harder. If the heat was too much, it would crumble and shatter eventually. But it would not spread. It would not leap from roof to roof, destroying all the buildings in its path.

Her table was still intact, but many of the locks once displayed on the wall were scattered on the floor, mingled with arrow-heads, darts, and marbles: blue, black, yellow-gold, and blue-green. As she crossed the floor, bits of loose straw fell from the ceiling. A hole gaped over half of her shop, and the curtain that separated her private quarters was gone. So, roughly, were her private quarters.

Shiaree wandered inside, following her extra-sensory directions toward what magic remained in Nara’s possession. Before they left, Nara intended to go over everything she recovered from the tower of Mordyss with Seth Joralon. Her hand absently felt for the tooth of the Black Fang that the wizard had given her. She realized what she was doing when she discovered its absence. Kennerly still had it, but it was only a charm, not something magical that gave her strength. She knelt and picked the marbles—tiny splashes of color—from where they had spilled among shards of glass. The cabinet must have burned, dropping the jar she kept them in.

A muffled knocking from where her door had been drew her attention, and she saw the Watchman, Johnny Twostep, standing in the frame. Ain’t got a welcome home party for you this time, he drawled, but then, right now, can’t think of why I ought to show you welcome, al’Sheed.

Nara stood, holding three blue-green marbles in her hand, and walked to the door as Shiaree continued scanning the area for magic. Nara stepped outside next to the Watchman and waited, but Johnny Twostep merely folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the burned wall, getting char and ash on his vest.

What happened? Nara asked finally.

Strangest thing, said Twostep. I looked out my window this afternoon thinkin’ it was a mighty fine day, that I might just take a little stroll through town to make sure all’s well, as that’s my job. But as I’m walkin’, I look up and see big black spots. At first I think, well, I guess that’s that and Kennerly’s off to Aurod, just flyin’ overhead to wish us all a goodbye. And yes, I knew that might be a possibility. But then I think to myself, ‘Self? Those don’t look like any kind of griffon I’ve ever seen. They ain’t so much feathered as leathery, and they ain’t flyin’ like raptors so much as dragons and other beasties as look like lizards.’ So I realize right then that we’re in trouble and start callin’ the alarm, not sure what they’re goin’ to do but pretty sure that we ain’t prepared for it. I start toward the mayor’s house, but he ain’t never been much use, and I can’t say as I’ll be sad to see the election come ’round again. All the while I’m shoutin’ for people to watch the sky, and then it hits, and the world’s a whole roar. I don’t know what it is they’re throwin’ at us, but I know it’s settin’ the city up in smoke. So then we’re organizin’ people at all the wells we can muster, and the folks come in from the outskirts with water, too, and we’re just doin’ our best puttin’ things out. Thing is, though, those beasties? Had someone come through not two weeks back heard rumors of ’em. Said that Old Mad Zych the Lich from the Mountains of Madness had conjured up a new group of fellas to do his will, ridin’ on powerful beasties with leather wings.

Lavrix, Nara whispered.

Twostep jammed his pipe between his teeth, and for the first time, Nara saw real anger in his movements. He didn’t light it. So I think to myself, ‘Self? Who in the Reach do I know has a bone to pick with Old Mad Zych?’ Well, wasn’t eight years ago as we had one of them necromancers come through town had more’n one issue with the lich, but he’s been gone now, what, five years past? No, I think to myself, only person I know has trouble with Old Mad Zych in my town is Nara al’Sheed. And what do you know! She comes back into town the very same day as my city—he took the pipe from his mouth so quickly she almost didn’t see it move—"is burned to the ground. Each word was punctuated by a stab from his pipe into her shoulder. She didn’t block. Now I’m happier than tea to have you stay here in my city so long as you ain’t causin’ me trouble, al’Sheed, but you ain’t a Reacher ’til you have my say on that, and at the moment, I can’t think of a compellin’ reason I’d want you to stay."

She let the words sink in, and they only added to the anger building since she returned to the city. It churned inside her, building, swirling in her like a whirlwind.

You are right, honored defender of the law, she said with terse formality. She met his eyes and was pleased that, despite the heat burning in her own, he didn’t look away. Will it or no, this is a fight I must take up. It must end, and I must end it.

Twostep’s anger faded in his surprise, though he tried to hide it. He stuck the pipe back in his mouth, then cupped it in his hands, balancing flint and steel and tobacco and standing in silence. The spark didn’t catch.

She looked back at the rubble of her little shop and saw scattered marbles. Her hand clenched with a squeak of glass on glass. What had she told Pareesa? That someday, she must face the lich, because the game could not go on like it had, with him sacrificing all she loved only to make her suffer.

Fight, you say? Twostep asked after a minute, his face still hidden by his cupped hands.

He has brought his force to me, Nara said slowly, the anger filling her words, giving her power. Now I will go to him. I am not without my own force.

You’ll be bringin’ two of my fine constables and the fire priest along, I suppose, Twostep said, his voice flat. The anger was still there, but now it mingled with curiosity.

No, she responded, her voice clipped. I will take the fight to him alone. She glanced over her shoulder to see Shiaree watching her with narrowed eyes. Unless the mighty wizardess would consent to take me there?

The Druegarn folded her arms across her chest, white braids swinging in her face. Of all of the foolhardiness I’ve heard in the entirety of my life, and I must say that since I studied at the Tower of Magic I’ve heard quite a lot, this by far is the most classic example of hubris I’ve ever personally witnessed. Shiaree yanked several braids behind her right ear. "You will never be able to take him on, Nara, because he lives for this sort of thing. Well, doesn’t live exactly, as I’m not sure the word can be applied accurately to a lich, but exists, you see. You do see, don’t you?"

Nara smiled, and she made sure it wasn’t a very nice smile at all. Is he a god for me to have pride against? No. There is no hubris here, my friend, only anger. And I am very good at anger.

Shiaree’s jaw worked but no words came out. Nara felt more than heard a presence behind her, and she was somehow unsurprised to see Seth Joralon, Linquasi of the Reach, guiding his pony toward her.

Pity about your shop, he said shortly, chewing on his pipe stem. He nodded at Johnny Twostep, who acknowledged him in roughly the same fashion. The Watchman gave up on lighting his pipe and tucked the flint and steel into a pouch on his belt.

It is said, ‘There is a time when loss spurs us on to that which we have long needed to do,’ she answered simply.

I’ll take you, Shiaree said suddenly, but I want it recorded that I think it’s a foolish idea. From what I understand to be true from my readings on the subject, as Soulbane Academy is deep in the Mountains of Madness as well, the area isn’t at all safe, and you’ll hardly be able to find your way into Zychariss’s castle without some form of aid. I haven’t seen it, of course, so I have no way to get you directly there, but I will aid you as well as I can. She stopped and shook her head, releasing the braids she’d tucked moments before. Oh, Nara, do you even have a plan?

I do not need a plan, Nara said, though she knew as soon as it was out of her mouth that it was a lie. He will see me.

Oh, he will at that, Joralon said. He took his pipe from his mouth and blew a perfect circle. ’Tis near certain he won’t see this as a step, and you’ll amuse him to no end. Joralon looked at Twostep thoughtfully. Question is, what kind of reception she’ll have when she gets back. Do you have what it takes to face evil when it comes, Watchman?

Me an’ evil go way back, said Twostep. I expect it still has some of my spit in its eye. He looked at Nara, and despite the lightness of his words, she saw the unrelenting anger, still directed at her, and she let that fuel her own resolve.

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