Mist moved through the roads of Simanel, enveloping whatever corner was bare of shadow. Early spring was the most common time for such weather. Clouds traveled in from the cool plains and sank under winds pouring from the hard northern mountains. If Vera did not know a Kulshe dragon manufactured their cover from Bahamut's temple, Vera might have believed fortune smiled on them. Instead the mist was a reminder that everything they did now, they did of their own power. Vera liked that idea far more.

Her white glove pressed into a shelf of soil as Elden pulled her from the ground. The sorcerer pulled her into the street and she rested on her knees for a moment. They had spent the past half hour in complete darkness. Vera found herself squinting, despite the heavy grey that began to occupy the sky. Large clouds, she thought. The sort that herald great windstorms to the west...

"Seems like our friends are doing their jobs," the old sorcerer muttered. He yanked Eithne out next. "We're not far from the advancing line of Greys. Do we have a plan yet?"

Vera shook the dirt from her cloak and stood up to brush the rest from her knees. The buildings around them were hard to see beyond pieces of their charred outlines. Strange to be standing in her home and not recognize anything. To not feel the welcome relief Simanel often provided almost shattered her right there. Simanel always lacked Agethlea's grandeur and Eistocene's imposing face. Instead of building monuments, Simanel built gathering places. It was a city possessed of community. A community who built itself up with a hard sort honesty. Vera walked the streets to visit the people there, not the sights. Void of sound and color, she knew that Simanel was hidden by more than just mists now.

"The plan..." Vera drew her staff from the holster at her back. The corners of her eyes crinkled as she looked at Elden, her smile hidden by the silver of her mask. "Don't get killed?"

Elden was not squinting when he glared in her direction. "You've been solemn as a damned stone since the Castel and now you want to joke?" he whispered, accusingly. "I can't joke when you took my flask."

"You should be sober."

( And you should have a plan. )

It was strange leaving the Castel in a tunnel made by Elden, she wasn't even sure how such a thing was possible, but he had made it and came with her back out into Simanel. Despite the fact that Agrippa was disappointed with her, he'd still given her this task to complete. Eithne had no room to complain any longer, and wouldn't complain. She was in higher spirits than she'd been in quite awhile. She was less elated about sneaking around the city that used to serve as part of her home than Elden was. He seemed quite good at such a thing, and Eithne thought she was sneaky. The man moved carefully around corners, and while he was probably drunk, he was at least good at hiding it. they were sent to check up on plans, plans which, Eithne still wasn't quite clear on. but Elden knew them, and he wasn't as grumpy as Agrippa so he made a fine enough partner. Eithne didn't have enough time to think about the grim things that had happened in these past weeks while they were travelling carefully from place to place.

There were people stationed all around the city, laying in wait for whatever it was that the Captain had planned. Eithne was surprised to see the numbers of plain clothed citizens sitting with White Riders. Ready, it seemed, for the end. Or the beginning. Whatever came, they were ready to defend their home. Eithne might have applauded them if it didn't make her sick to think of what would happen to some or all of these people. Riders included. She'd lost enough friends in this, and didn't want to see another fall. But there was no telling how or when this would end. Even if they managed to stop The Grey Riders, and Eragos' brother, what of Gavrie and Seca? What of Gola?

( There seemed to be more enemies than they could ever hope of arresting or defeating. )

Cobbled stone clicked beneath his feet as he moved. The streets were not as narrow as they could have been, he supposed, but Montfort Tavern seemed smaller than it ever had. One of those iron fire pits had been moved from the watch towers to the street below. There were several civilians huddled around it. Their palms were open and extended, facing the flame, and a single Rider kept a watchful eye on them. "Spring" was a phrase that meant nothing at times, especially this early in the year, and the cold could still make every joint in a man's body ache with memories of sweltering heat. That was likely to start fights among men who thought they were going to die. Eragos had broken up four such fights himself, and he'd been here for only three baleful stares of the sun. His hood sat high on his head, and he stared at nothing and everything while he moved.

If these times were normal, he would have listened to Montfort's son sing a song about the sexual perversion of Sadon and tried to prevent any of the older Riders from breaking the young man's head. The fool had never even met Sadon, only heard tales of the man from his father. Eragos had caught a glimpse of the old and infirm Sadon, who'd joined Mearann and Agrippa for some sort of procession of Captains, but that had been long ago. Sadon's stories were racing into legend by that time. Hell, half of Mearann's wilder tales had been considered outrageous lies. Eragos had only realized the difference by watching Vargis carefully. The old Rider would nod soberly when Mearann remembered something incorrectly, and his face would freeze when Mearann accurately recalled an indiscretion. No one remembered why Sadon and Montfort had hated each other, though there were a thousand stories. In any case, breaking the head of Montfort's son was something of a cherished pastime. Like besting Cistal at horseshoes, if you could manage it. A story to laugh about later.

( Nobody was laughing, now. )

They rode like wild horsemen of old, charging through brush and plain with equal verve, their eyes fixed always forward. Rand was not exhausted by the time they'd stopped for the first night. A day and a half, covered in a day's time. This was the pace they were meant to keep all the way to their destination. When you rode that hard, over that many miles, there was precious little time for conversation. In truth, Eragos did not know what they would have discussed in any case. He knew that the cold wind bit through everything he wore to shield himself. He knew that soon or late he was going to pay a price for what he'd chosen to do, and how he'd chosen to do it. It was his lot to lead the willing into danger. If they were unwilling - or unable - then it was his lot to keep them safe. Right now, the Lady Vera and Eithne were either unwilling or unable.

( He was not sure it mattered, in any case. )

Oak planks from a broken armoire were used for the campfire, which roared from the confines of a circle constructed of stone and metal pieces. Her brother, Gavrie, had taught her how to build a good fire when she was young. It was an odd, stray thought that came to her when she was tossing another piece of wood into the flames.

Gavrie had always been good at setting camp, at provisioning the right amount of supplies and looking ahead. She wondered if the coldness in his heart was as great as the man that he was named for. She wondered, as she had always wondered, what it was he believed. Would he agree with Faxril? Or would he agree with her father? Those questions never seemed important when she was younger.

( But back then, she thought she could stop this. )

From the beginning, he knew that he would not sleep. Eyeless Serpent had been discovered dead inside of his tent. Sleeping Tiger had been nowhere and thus he could not be asked. Therefore Eragos had been left with the somewhat thankless task of assuring his new hosts that no one had done anything to the man. It could have been the fellow who'd fetched the tea. Yet he could also not be found. Eragos had been in military encampments before. The odds that one man could disappear in them was small. The odds that two could disappear and one could die in the same camp were nearly nonexistent. Such was life. He'd left them to their search and gathered his wits about him by retreating into the cool evening air.

( Even here, he could find no answers. )

Rain was driving hard against the burlap surface of the tent. Here, as in the other tent, one barely felt the wind that shook the poles. Eragos was surprised at the sudden difference - humid rain, cooler than summer but not quite comfortable, gave way to an almost frosty interior. How such a thing was accomplished Eragos did not know, and was not sure that he wanted to know. What concerned him was not the temperature of the place, but what lay beyond the immediate. Upon entering they were greeted by a rectangular foyer, composed entirely of silk screens surrounded by wooden frames. There were two torches - bronze bowls filled with wood which burned brightly in the dimness, casting light upon the screens that blocked shadows from the receiving area. And in this area a soldier waited, stripping his gloves from his hands with great impatience. He wore the uniform of Faxril's men, but his head was not shaved clean, and there was no helmet on his person. He bowed when Eragos entered, and Eragos returned the bow.

( This was a strange way to keep a prisoner. )

The rain started when they broke out across the edge of the Acierran Plains, heavy and violent as it was wont to do in the southern half of the Free Cities. Vera was glad for her cloak, which caused the water to roll off her back rather than weigh down her clothes. The skies had waited until the tall flags of the Southern Army were in sight. Navy blue, red, black and white blurred together as the rain ripped fiercely at the cloth. Rain threatened even the stakes that held the poles to the earth. Yet the flags were driven into the ground by hands used to worse winds, worse rains. Faxril's men were, at their core, men of the sea.

( ... )

Twilight was a peculiar time to be on the road. Diffused light softened the night's darkness into a sapphire blue but did not yet collect on the horizon. The moon was still preferred by the heavens and yet drooped, as if fatigued. Night was often cold in Agethlea, especially at the turn of the seasons, and a low lying fog settled in anticipation of the sun. As the White Riders made their way out of Agethlea, the fog spread into the trees surrounding the road. The heavy clouds clung to the bases of trees and occasionally reached up to tangle in branches and vines.

( Conditions of the road made for a somber exit... )

His voice was still ringing in her ears, and his ragged breath was still hot on her face even a day after it'd happened. A day, it felt like more. Still she carried that weight upon her shoulders when all Eithne wanted to do was be rid of it. She felt that she was still as much of a disappointment as she'd felt there on the cart beside them all. Eithne had taken enough care to make sure she no longer was wearing the clothes she'd spent a night and day drinking in, but even washing all that ash from her body, from her hair, all the blood and everything else. She still felt it. Felt the heavy knife in her hand and the ghost of a breath on her face. Tirad was dead, and Sleeping Tiger had already forgotten him. Tirad was dead and soon enough all of them would forget him for what he was. Only she would remember him, she thought, until her last breath. She did not feel as if that would be anytime soon. She thought now, now that she'd faced death twice in barely a day she could live through more of this. She knew Gola's weakness, all of them knew it now, and it was only a matter a time until they met him again. He could not leave Lady Vera alone, he could not leave Eragos alone, and now that she'd made her presence known so vividly, Eithne doubted she would be left alone.

( That was why she was outside of his door. )

Evening crept softly into the Manor as if to hide that Night was to visit again. The day had blurred by, her fingers felt bare from disuse. Grief stole her hunger and concentration, so she moved. Vera walked the halls in simple clothes -- pants, a tunic just small enough and a thin robe that tied at her waist. Her hair was in a lazy tie at her neck, warming the cool skin of her shoulder. Her weapons were left to be cleaned by others. Normally she would do this herself, but her heart made it impossible this once. There were dresses she could wear and mourning colors to display. Vera's tolerance was too destroyed. She longed to move freely. With all of her uniforms ruined, this was the only way.

( ... )

He didn't know where he was. He knew. Yes, he knew. The hard paved stone beneath the arches could not be mistaken for anything else. If Inalen had been here to see smoke pouring out behind them - what would she have said? And what would she have done? Something was happening down below. No one was getting out of there who was not already out. So it was relief which found him first when Eithne revealed herself to be sitting atop one of the medical wagons, sullen in her insistence on smoking even as they were trying to assess her wounds. The healers received more than one barking instruction from her. I can walk, she had shouted. Wordlessly she yelled in another man's face as the fellow tried to get at the wound in her side. Somehow she'd made it out. But there were two masks beside her, where there should have been one. Tirad was dead. That was what it must mean. Eragos realized with a sinking sort of sadness that Grees' mask had burned with him in that hellhole.

( If they could recover it, they would. )

Vera's face was slick with blood that was not her own. She wiped both the crimson and the sweat with a glove she'd ripped off her hand, before discarding the ruined thing in nearby flames. She was running now, trying to keep low in the smoke despite the way her ribs protested -- likely bruised, instead of broken. She remembered the words of the Grey Rider as he grabbed her wrist with his burnt hand. She stabbed him through the neck, careless of the spray. The bubbles of liquid that made him choke as he opened his mouth were what made his words stick farther in her mind. The knife that she'd used to take the light of his eyes was now in her belt. She never lost her knives.

( Look around you... )

Midnight.

When the message came, she should have been sleeping. Over Agethlea, muted lightning ran through low clouds that shifted restlessly against one another and before sprawling across the tops of buildings. Twisting, thrashing, the storm threw rain against the glass panes of the Lord's Manor and the water clung to the windows, almost pleading to be let inside. Vera was already awake when Agethlea shivered under the harsh hand of the wind -- a violent variation of what blew out the candles of mourners. She couldn't sleep here. She could only lay staring at a ceiling with perfect paint and a spider too lazy to catch much other than its own floating web. That was when Vera felt that terrible burn inside her skin, the one the High Lord told her not to ignore again. A guardsman came with a brief, unsigned note not long after:

It is happening now.

( There was no meeting this time... )

Their orange flames danced in time to the movements of the crowd, to the vagaries of the wind, and he was transfixed. In all the years he had been alive Eragos Feareborne had never seen anything such as this. Dozens, perhaps hundreds of bodies. Perhaps even more. All of them clutched between two hands a candle of one kind or another. They were all burning, and every person was hunched over that candle. In prayer, perhaps, or silent contemplation. Cobbled stone beneath their feet was still. The quiet of it was nearly unbearable; it made him want to act the ruffian. Shout something into the crowd. Thrust his arms into the sky and howl like a mad wolf. This was not the sort of event for which his sort was prepared, or for which his sort was meant.

( He stayed in any case. )

Morning's yellow light was slipping through silver clouds in slivers. Patches of light created shapes, oddities and curiosities of light on the cobbled streets they walked. And they did walk. For all that horses might have been faster, he did not want to lend any sense of urgency to what they were doing. Between the incident at the waterside cells, the ruin and magic that had befallen the Caserton stables, that wagon of Illos that had flown through the streets in pursuit of White Riders, and the fall of the Lower Courts, Agethlea had turned into something of an outlaw's city. Soldiers were still working with White Riders to restore order - but panic was the order of the day. Theft was on the rise. Violence was as well, and not nearly so polite as the theft. Bathia had tried to describe what had happened. Eragos had lost interest after only a moment of the fellow's mad gibbering about thousands of fates living inside his mind.

( Elden had scribbled furiously. )

There were infinitely more important things she could be doing and just as many pointless things that wouldn't be as pointless as this, but Eithne liked drinking. It kept her minds off the things that were bothering her. The death of one of her only friends, the death of thousands of other people in two swoops that she had witnessed with her own eyes, the revenge that she sought but didn't know where to begin, and of course there was that thing that almost appeared more important but... wasn't, was it? She hadn't been drunk when she'd spent most of the night talking to Nieve, but now she was half way there. She wasn't about to stop either.

Cols would have scowled at her, but at least he would have joined her. He would have sat there, maybe had one or two ales and then stuck to water. Of course that didn't mean he ever beat her at cards. She could almost picture the look on his face as she fanned out another winning hand for him to see. But he'd never see it again, and she would never see his face again. At least, not while alive. The thought had crossed her mind that in the end she'd be seeing Cols and Martine.. probably sooner rather than later. The way things were going..

Her anger bubbled away whenever she thought about the fact that someone could have stopped this before it'd gone as far as it was now. Could have stopped it at the beginning if it were not for their desire to stick to rules and laws. If they had stopped it.. years ago, some people would have been jailed, some killed. But more than this? More than these numbers which seemed impossible on paper, but were real. Real people who were now dead. As much as Eithne thought she deserved to wear her uniform she was staying as far away from it while out. The entire city hated them, if not the entire country. White Riders couldn't even stop a man from leveling a building.. Sourly she took another long drink from her glass.

( Which would run out first, the money she had or the ale in the Drunken Rat? )

Enough people heard his name on her lips to know; she did not need seek Eragos any more. The yarns that bound her concentration could only take so much, not unlike the stitches that held the skin of her arm closed. Elden, who had returned from the rubble of the Lower Courts and the corpses there, had tried in earnest to heal her wound. She viciously refused and felt with every word she used to stab at the poor sorcerer that there was little rationale involved. "They have already taken the sleeve that was cut, but this flesh is mine. You can not wash this away," she said. She owed Elden more respect. He had pulled her out of a pile of stone. Yet Vera guarded the wound as she had been willing to guard a corpse. Elden left her alone after that.

( Memories were important, but she was being foolish... )

For the first time in his life, he felt as though - even if it was just for a moment - he put the concerns of the people above himself. Always it was revenge he wanted, or "justice", that word that could mean almost anything in the mind of the wronged - that word whose meaning was never wrong, even though no two people had an exactly similar idea of what justice was. There was no pride in such a decision. In fact, it was an uncomfortable sensation that was running through his limbs at that moment. Not just because he had been - up to that point - a selfish sort of fellow. Not just because he should have been putting their needs ahead of his own all of this time. But because it meant putting her in danger. When he could not resolve what she meant to him, when every glance in her direction was a tangled web of thoughts and emotions, he was willing to send her into harm's way and ... nothing about that seemed right.

( Perhaps it was not right. )

The memorial had been markedly brief. There were men working in the square at all hours. Priests and soldiers and White Riders alike, clearing away rubble. Searching for anyone who might have survived. And so the site itself had become a memorial. Estimates and rolls of the court's staff listed casualties at nearly three thousand. Perhaps as many as one thousand dead. Eragos could hardly credit such numbers - but the tower itself had collapsed into dozens of other structures, which had not been evacuated, and the tower itself had still been conducting day-to-day business. Some simply ran and hid with the start of the commotion. Those were the rolls he studied with a stone face. Emotions kept in check only because he did not know what would happen if he failed. Tanist and Thiele, missing. Presumed dead. Cols, dead. Birloch, dead. The Lower Court's judges, dead. Frozen Pond, dead. That poor girl, dead. Sarta, dead. Again. Every living soul who had witnessed anything - any living soul that could be trusted to be impartial - was dead. And their work was for nothing.

( This was what the Red House made of public announcements. )