"Well," Pol said quietly.

"He isn't here," Ilúvatar answered.

Somewhere on the plains of Astarii the hands of the gods had done work that few mortal minds could properly frame. A flat stretch of grass, each blade of grass a solitary emerald, between two foothills that may as well have been mountains. These were the burial grounds of Caoimhin, the resting place for their ancestors dating back for longer than Ilúvatar had been alive. Wind sent by the dragon flowed down one hill and up the other, brushing the heads of those magnificent blades. Each one swayed in time with those around it, a rolling sea somehow on dry land for the occasion. There were no tombs here, no masoleum. They were surrendered to the earth which bore witness to their creation and their destruction, but anonymously. Only the marble tablet in the center of this otherwise empty field bore the name of Caoimhin. Their family pride encased in a single immovable stone, which stood unchanged since before Eibhear's birth. An incredible thing.

There was an apple tree, now that he thought of it, but Eibhear had once joked that it would not bear fruit again until it drank once more of Caoimhin blood. Developed quite a taste for it, he said. Sure enough the tree towered over the marble slab. Thick with leaves, but not a single red fruit in sight.

( Eibhear was not as funny as he pretended to be. )

The stench of wet boots, blood and the persistent lingering of whiskey permeated the "fine" drinking establishment Conlan found with Vera at his side. The molding around the entrance was chipped and heavily dented. Fresh paint was half-heartedly slapped on and caked the obvious cracks in the wood so that they stood out even more. The sign above said entrance was written in faded black and read Gentleman's Keep. Conlan had a good chuckle at that, but no one else did. Too bad, really. As for the young Rider in his company, he had his reservations about her. Normally he would regret taking a Lady into such a place, but Vera entered first with her staff strapped to her back. Any inappropriate glances stopped when she drove her knife into a table top and told a lone drunk in an icy voice that he would choke on his mug if he offered her ale again. He decided then that it was okay if he brought Hasna inside.

( Belwood did not have very many social gathering places... )

Wind could bite more than the flesh. It struck at memory with harder hands, more lethal weapons, than it ever struck at skin and bone. One mountain was nothing like another. Yet the kiss of pine, the brittle taste of frigid water on your tongue - that stately emptiness in the air, a lack of civilization smelling as pungent as a boon of it - all of it conspired to remind him of the wife he'd known and then alienated. Perhaps it was easier to think that Minaht had estranged herself from him. Perhaps that was easier than facing the truth, most brittle and bitter of all things which confronted him. There were two parties in a marriage, in any relationship, and if one or th eother fell out of step then the march became disorganized. Perhaps not the most flattering terms for a marriage, this idea of a military procession, of a march, and yet that was what it turned in to. Not a dance in which each partner was expressing only joy. A march, which could be filled with the joy of a dance but also the solemn vow of duty. He told himself time and again that he'd done his duty to his wife.

( A bard could weave a lie in any tongue, or any song. )

Fire was crackling before him. Yet all he could think of was the crazed look in Xias' eyes. I am doing my duty, the man had said. Xias might have known what he meant when he said that, but Eragos was completely in the dark. Aside from the fire he felt he'd seen no illumination in some time. And yet even the fire was small, buried in a pit, bordered by rocks, so that there was no light at all. Only warmth, and a touch of smoke that would disappear into the night sky. Winter's strong pine would carry the scent of it away. Vargis knew the trick of it, but Eragos could not remember the last time he'd needed to conceal his movements. Snow was still on the ground, but enough had fallen to hide the horses' tracks since they'd stopped for the night. Now they were all huddled under cloaks and pretending that the snow didn't trouble them. Xias must have been close to losing his sanity just then. He must have been organizing a search. The question was, what form would that search take?

( And how many would die for it? )

Everyone they questioned pointed them in the same direction. Every contact Eithne could have contacted, every person who she knew had known Boq showed them where they thought they would find them. She'd already known where to go, but asking questions was the right way to do things, and she had hoped she would be wrong. She was not. Boq wanted her to find him here, and wanted to end her here. The sixth circle. It wasn't so unlike that of the circle in Oisea, concealed so easily in another building, but Trone was less obvious and it was no farmhouse.

( Much larger than that. )

A man's vicious groan cut the darkness around them. Skandra took that opportunity to strike a match - but it wasn't enough light, to frighten their colleague or pretend they were intimidating. So his fingers snapped, a loud crack rang out, and the match flew into the glass cage of a lantern. Despite the sudden rip of wind it managed to light the oil, and Skandra got a closer look at his target's face. The man was middle aged, not possessed of a razor by all appearances, and he had a wicked cut on his chin. For a moment Skandra thought he enjoyed getting into tussles - but then he remembered, oh yes, poor fellow had a bottle smashed on his face. That was likely to hurt his standing with the ladies. Not that this fellow was one to care about what women wanted. The king's brand on his neck said everything that had to be said. And then some. So there really was a plot - and more than that, it involved some of the king's own men.

( Maybe this fellow knew a little something about it. )

It was strange to think that he'd existed all of this time, and there still was something in this world he had not seen. Ilúvatar did not like to think of himself as inexperienced or even foolish, yet the first sight of it took his breath away. Light stunned the Drow, caused them great pain, and yet here in the city of their creation was light. Not a great deal of light, to be sure, but enough. Enough to see pale hair topping black skin, with red eyes that glistened hate in the darkness. He felt also a strange sort of excitement. As though this could be the moment of his death, or the moment in which he felt most alive. It was always the same before a battle. And like any battle, in this exchange, there would be blood. Getting into a city of Drow might not be as difficult as first imagined. Getting out, on the other hand, was probably going to be quite the trick.

( There would be no grand charge. )

Greenwist was much more of a talker when he was missing a limb. She wondered if he'd confess everything he'd ever done if Eragos picked up his sword against him again, but then they didn't need that. She wasn't sure if Eragos would stop, even if he desired justice and law, she had seen the darkness in his eyes while she laid on the floor dying. It was almost frightening. Instead it was Greenwist reciting things in hushed words while watching Eragos with fear painting his old face. The plan was to get the information they needed and then to leave him useless back in the castel. Of course, Eithne wasn't very much for planning anything and it meant they'd need to knock the mage out again. Martine had a dagger trained on the mage's throat as he talked.

Boq was behind all of this. But it hadn't started ith him. It started with Greenwist, but it was Boq that took control. Money spoke as much as actions. Where Greenwist was intimidating, and could kill, the mage preferred to work with fear rather than blood. Slaaven was an enforcer, and an idiot, but he had a job in this and was thankfully already in custody. Now two pieces of the puzzle were there for Agrippa. If he couldn't be satisfied with that then she didn't know what she'd do. Boq was not going to return to Simanel, or to Oisea. Not without a fight. But which would be worse? Killing her friend, or at least watching him die. Or having him imprisoned and letting the courts deal with him?

( She couldn't answer that by herself. )

A journey out of a village had never been so strange. Koe could feel it even as he secured his saddlebags, before they left the stable. Mirram and Horon were involved in a hushed conversation on the far side of these wooden stalls, with carefully laid straw and carefully arranged troughs. Red pushed his head against Koe's shoulder as the dragon worked - but Koe's hand was absent as it stroked the dray horse's face. Whatever they had been discussing was for their ears alone. Eavesdropping was not a gentleman's sort of business. He was a storyteller, not a gentleman, but even with that distinction clear in his mind Koe still could not hear what they were saying. A trick of the wind, perhaps, which was rushing through the stable from one set of open double doors to the other. Or perhaps it was something else and he chose not to think so. Thinking that they were hiding something would have cast a pall over this entire affair. Well. That was nonsense. If he believed it he was lying to himself. Horon was hiding something. The question was simply whether or not that unknown element was going to cause trouble for them. Two dragons and a knight of Bahamut had nothing to fear.

( Nothing at all. )

Eragos,

I can meet you at Ganva. A small village between here and Tyrus, the sort of place that no one stops unless they have to. Rumor is that your wagons visit this place often for supplies and a pair of days' rest for the teams, the soldiers. It should not be difficult to time my arrival properly provided I left yesterday and wasted three horses. The timetable will be difficult, but I will see you in the village or not far outside of it. The runner guaranteed me that he would have this letter in your hands before you reached the village. If he succeeded, you're to give him two gold crowns. Trone crowns, of course, since they're the heaviest. Now don't be cheap old friend.

Suspecting that Eragos had been given enough time to read the note, the runner coughed. Or perhaps that was merely a result of his hard run through all the damnable hills of the low country to try and reach Eragos before the knight reached Ganva. There in the dark, with only the two of them, Eragos could have sent the boy away in anger. Doubtless he'd run faster and harder for the promise of two crowns. Even knowing his feat would be nearly impossible, and that they were now only a half-day's ride from the village, the boy had tried. He might hate the author for being so free with money that was not his own - but such was life. Eragos did not concern himself with such things.

( At least, he tried not to. )

There was only one thing to do.

Ahead of them, on flat black rock, there was but one figure standing proud. Alone. Ilúvatar knew it as soon as he saw the figure - Talmus. But his instincts were not confirmed until they were closer. Until the traitor was staring at them, face twisted. Eyes seemingly darker with hate. Ilúvatar did not know if that was something that his mind added or something that was actually occurring. Only that, for a moment, he felt something like repulsion at the sight. Only a moment. And then the battle instinct was upon him. Eibhear had the lead, but his steps were slowing, and the look on his face was one of conflict. Even Pol did not seem eager to fight, or eager to confront the one who'd nearly killed them. Fenrir was nowhere to be seen. If he was still alive, he had to be nearby, but Ilúvatar didn't know when or if he would shoot Talmus. DId he want the fellow dead badly enough to strike from the shadows and think about honor later? Or would he strike to Talmus' face? Time would answer that question.

( Time, and a dead body. )

Capes were a fine thing for formal engagements, but Ilúvatar was glad to leave it behind. Equally glad that he wasn't saddled with armor. The coat of his office hung open, collar folded down, and the double-breasted thing was only there to keep out the sudden chill of the night. Despite how cold it was the air felt charged, explosive. And that was mostly due to the danger. Every man who'd come along carried every weapon he could find on his person, because the half-second you took to kick a dead Perub off your sword was the half-second it would take for his brother to skewer you like a pig. Improvisation was essential. Adaptation. Respond to the situation and don't stop moving. Just fight, and kill. Those were the orders he'd given. Along with 'be quiet or I'll end you', it was the simplest set of marching orders he'd ever given a group of soldiers. It was also the reason he'd chosen these men. They knew how to fight as one. And to the last they were all respectful of their new recruit. To suggested that having two lords on one mission such as this meant it was doomed to failure or bound for great success - but no in-between.

( Sometimes he wanted to cut out To's tongue. )

The thin slip of paper was worn; a small hole broke through the center where the creases were stressed most. Conlan had only been turning it between his fingers for a night, some of the morning. Captain Mearann's handwriting still looped methodically across the middle, spelling out what he wanted in brief, precise words. The angry bean pole of a girl that had been steadily cleaning every rafter in the Walker barracks with a horse brush and a rag was to follow him wherever he went. Observe whatever he did. And learn whatever it was that he knew about being a Rider. She was not his first mentee, but she was certainly the youngest. Conlan might have argued against taking her along, if he hadn't watched her bloody her fist on two men twice her size, who also should have possessed twice her skill. From the black look that Vargis had when he'd read the paper, Conlan should have argued against it purely for her name. Lady Vera of Beit-Orane. That he was teaching anyone so closely related to that House of smoke and blood was ironic at best and dangerous at worst.

( Conlan never said anything to Captain Mearann... )

There was always one. A table, a corner of the common area. Maybe leaning on the wall by the tap, peering into the relative darkness from beneath your hat. Skandra was used to taking up such a position to get a feel for the room, but this time it was even more important. You could see glimmers of a man's true nature in the things he didn't control. The way he casually threw his cards on the table could tell you that he had a bad hand, or that he was a bad actor. If you'd seen his face in the same tavern more than a few times you knew he didn't throw his cards down that honestly - so you knew it was a lie. That was the pulse of the room. A feeling, or even four or five feelings, or a thousand of them strung together making a chain of sensations you could feel and see and explore. It was not an easy thing to learn how to do, but for him it began as instinct. Survival as a thief was based on knowing the strength of your target, and one of the fastest ways to do that was to be able to size a fellow up just by looking at him. Standing a post by the tap was not the least conspicuous way of doing it, but having a view of the whole room was important. And if no one could see you turning your head they couldn't tell who you were looking at.

( It was a skill that Cavras, Vedette and Ithacles had not yet perfected. )

The morning air was friend to no one, least of all those who slept in tents and built fires to warm themselves. By the time sleep kissed their cheeks only the embers remained. Overnight, heat would build below the surface of the tent, and they would wake warm. But most did not secure their furs, or their coats, or whatever means they'd brought on the journey to stay warm. That meant some of the teamsters whose sole job was to drive the wagons were drinking from flasks at first light. To keep warm, they said. Eragos had seen better ways to keep warm in his many years on this world. They were better because they were less expensive, and because they did not render you useless on account of your intoxication. That was one of his lesser troubles, which was both commentary on the journey as a whole and on the severity of his opinion. There was no shortage of opinions - but his was one of the few that mattered, because his was the only one that was not being paid by the merchant. He could leave whenever he wanted. Agrippa's orders made that clear.

( It was not his first choice. )

Saoirse dragged him down and pressed her breasts into his chest. She was famous for them. He was famous for almost everything and that’s why she loved him. The raven haired girl moaned like a pagan and locked her ankles behind his back. The four-post bed shook and a pillow fell to the floor. She sank her teeth into his shoulder. He laughed.

A month since the footrace. A month since he’d healed Felix. Flaithriaoh had wanted Saoirse Ailis for years now. Everytime she walked by the pitch with those long legs, or tossed her dark hair back to laugh and show her white throat, everytime she said something low and soft in that sultry witch voice…Now that he had her here, covered in sweat and smelling like tulips, all he could think about was Felix’s cracked skull. And the inquisition that had followed. These things took time, he had been assured over and over again by the priests. There was no quick answer.

( “There, there,” she pleaded. He obliged and her head knocked loudly against the board. )

There were details that you noticed about a place in one situation that you would not notice in others. Such as the number of windows. There were fifteen windows, at last count, from the inside and the outside. Not that they would need windows - but at the same time, Koe did not want to think that it would come to that. What he'd told Iluq was the truth. He did not trust Horon, but he did believe that Horon was telling the truth when he said he would not betray their secret. Whether or not it counted as a betrayal if he told this person, or that one, was a question for someone more intelligent by far than Koe. These were distinctions that it was important to make - because just as there was a difference between trust and believe someone was being honest, there was a difference between perhaps arguing with Horon and being forced to fight him to the death.

( Obviously, Koe did not want to pursue the second option. )

Eragos had been right about one thing, Greenwist did have a home here in Oisea. The only problem so far had been actually getting anywhere near the thing. Agrippa most likely already had people out looking for them, and then Greenwist had his own brand of guards. Each bigger and uglier than the next. Eragos and the rest were in uniform, and blended in quite well with the other Riders that seemed to be patrolling the streets more often than usual. Eithne in plain clothes fit in with the rest of the people still out and about. She didn't feel right about this. Knocking on some one's door was too simple. It would end in someone dying, or much worse. She was as uneasy with approaching Greenwist's home as she was about talking about her feelings. So she was very very uneasy.

Eragos appeared to be as confident as he usually was. Wearing his sword as if it'd protect him from the magic that Greenwist possessed. Martine, and Cols also looked confident. Geoff seemed almost smug. He'd broke them out. Eithne still wanted to question him about that. He was spineless most of the time, easy to scare, even easier to beat at cards and yet he appeared to have some past that he hadn't shared as well. A thief? Eithne wanted to sneak around while Eragos wanted to walk right up to the door.

( She was still shooting him dirty looks whenever his back was turned to her. )

Living in Ellothorien, you grew used to a great many things. Lights were abundant, forever changing in color. Forever changing in pitch. Mirrors were found with equal frequency. Fountains, endlessly surging, flowing water into deep mirrored pools that one could use for moments of reflection no matter where one went. Ilúvatar did not like thinking of home when he was out on campaign. only because he usually despised it when someone reminded him of what they were capable of in their best moments. Instead he was here, close to dying if not extremely so - for the moment. And though he did not fear death Ilúvatar often wondered what would happen if they lived in a world without war. More than likely he would have taken up a more honest trade. Farming, perhaps. Sheep herding. Living in the forest, training in the games, none of that would be possible in a world without combat. Their athletic prowess would not have been needed then, to help the monarchy emerge victorious in conflicts. Certainly he would have done his time in a temple. Learned affection for the goddess they were all supposed to love.

( In the main he felt anger. )

You didn't find taverns in castles. There was no merry place where men drank together except in the dining hall, which only served ale. And even that was not always a merry place. Especially when the entirety of the king's guard was waiting for a chance to get you alone. So here they sat, in one of what must have been hundreds of nondescript rooms. Cavras swore that it was a room he'd been given for the duration of his stay, but none of his personal effects were in the room. Only a wooden table coated in dust, a tapestry which depicted two nameless faceless armies marching against one another, and a misted window which revealed light - but nothing of the outside world. Safely ensconced behind fortifications and the iron determination of military men there was no chance of a scuffle or an encounter of chance. So he and Cavras had gambled for coppers a little while. Only when Skandra offered to make change for his silver pence did Cavras abandon the gambling.

( The mood of the room was sour. )