A gold base. Circular, sloping upward to form a smaller circle. In that smaller circle rested a single wax candle. Hard wax, if his eyes did not deceive, the kind that they made in cities. Skandra didn't know precisely how far they were from a city who made hard wax candles. Not something you liked to use if there were another option in the summer. Hard wax candles were winter things. He would assume then that it was winter. The gold inlay on the candle holder spoke volumes of its origins. He thought it was a pattern of leaves and vines. The sort of code language that had been used once upon a time to communicate if there were humans about. Elves used that script. Strange to see it marking a candle, but there were other oddities before he asked about the candle.

( Many other oddities. )

Sound was roaring through his ears. Skandra could hear voices screaming together. A thousand of them. A million of them. Too many at the last for him to count. Was this death? That was what Gershul had been trying to warn him of. This was death, and Skandra was in the process of that death, experiencing it fully on his way to the depths of hell. This was the only explanation that flashed through his mind. He was falling, alone, in a sea of infinite black. Nothing there to help him. Nothing there to save him. Only the fall, and the screaming as he soared deeper into the abyss. He should have been terrified. Instead what he felt was a strange sort of peace. If this was the end... it was an end he deserved. It was an end that he should have seen coming, long ago, when the knife had been clutched in his hand and the faces around him were jeering for his death.

( The first, but not the last. )

From the abandoned house to the second scaffold was not far. Skandra did not worry that his limbs were going to give out on him. They were close enough now to Gershul, to the gateway that had started all of this madness, and Skandra was not going to turn his back now. One of them was going to die here today. Skandra was going to be sure of that in the only way that he could. If it meant that Skandra died, too, it was a price worth paying. He thought of that as he peered into the darkness, waiting to arrive wherever this scaffold was going to take them. Even a few years ago, if you'd asked him, he would have said that he wouldn't give his life for anything except... because no matter how awful things seemed, it was never so bad as it first appeared. There was always something else worth living for.

( Today, he couldn't see it. )

Above them stood that spire, unlike rock in texture but in firmness, second to none. Skandra wanted to know where such a spire could come from. And why it was this place to which Gershul continually drew himself. Something in his nature? Something about the way he summoned portals to other worlds? There was enough here that Skandra didn't know. And he did not see how things were going to be any different, later. This doorway was going to close. And Skandra was going to find a way to kill Gershul, no matter what it took. Yet it wasn't fear, so much as it was about ... what? Vengeance? Maybe Aeotha was right to look at him that way. This didn't matter. Skandra wasn't going to let himself be stopped because Gershul was still loved by his idiot of a father. Shantar was a fool if he thought Gershul was still within reach. The man had escaped that reach long ago, and he'd never fucking looked back.

( Who would, if they were Gershul? )

The first thing he noticed about those ominous spires was not the color of them, or the status of the elven houses - quaint little things of wood and stone - that were seemingly hung on the side of the things. It was the texture that he took note of. Running his hand over the surface of it, even through his gloves, felt like nothing he'd ever witnessed. The surface was soft, soft enough that it had give. But it still felt like stone so long as you did not put pressure on it. Rock had never behaved that way that Skandra was aware of. As wide at the base as ten houses grouped together, gradually growing thinner near the top, silver-glowing in color, with those houses hanging from the sides of them as hairs might.

( It still made his skin crawl. )

Of course, talking and climbing proved a very difficult mix. Especially when the climb was sheer, with little in the way of handholds, and part of him worried that they were simply going to slide back down to the bottom of the basin. There was no reason to think that something like this occurred naturally any longer - Skandra doubted such precision could be achieved by nature, even if nature intended it that way. By the time they reached the top of the thing, his hands felt as tired and creaky as the rest of him. Dust covered him from head to toe, he was certain that he was bleeding in several places beneath his clothes, and the stench of... something he didn't recognize... was clinging to his every inch of skin. If this was an adventure, he wanted to go back to a tavern, where at least he knew all the smells and he had his choice of women. Aeotha was like a canker, lanced and bleeding him dry.

( Of course, that wasn't really true. )

Skandra grimaced at the nothing that greeted his face. More blackness. Only... no. He was lying on a bed of cool polished stones; that much he could feel from the pressure on his cheek. Skandra pressed his palms into the stones. They were just piled; one on top of another, just like you might see in a river bed. Must have been piled pretty deep, too; there was no give as he pushed off with his hands. Every creak in his bones reminded him that he'd been falling once. And might be again, if the strangeness of his surroundings was any guide to what the hell was going on. Skandra was standing tall before he realized that he'd left his had on the ground. Bleary eyes blinked furiously as he stooped down to pick it up. It was only then that he realized precisely what he was standing on. And precisely why this all seemed so unusual. Instead of the drab gray he was expecting, Skandra found himself staring at smooth stones that appeared to be made of glass.

( Well, fuck. )

He was seated at a table. Fine oak passed beneath his naked fingertips. It was stained, glossed with lacquer, until it was the image of perfection. A thousand carpenters could toil for a thousand days and not make something so fine as this. They were eating dinner here. With their fine ceramic plates, also glazed fine, and gold forks. Gold spoons. There was nothing more decadent that he could imagine, with its sloping high walls and its domed ceiling. Servants must have climbed ladders to light the oil lanterns hanging in a circle above them. They not only lit the room with bright orange light, but illuminated that mural strung across the dome. Skandra stared at the plate in front of him. A slab of meat, cooked proper, still sitting in its own juices, smelling divine.

( It was the face that greeted him which he couldn't credit. )

One knee in the dirt, one raised near his stomach, Skandra took a moment to gaze across the untainted grass which surrounded them. Tall enough - because no one had any reason to cut it, out here - that wind would lay it flat. Which the wind was doing, at this very instant. Tugging on his hat at the same time. Stirring his coat around him. There were clouds in the sky, as smooth as the gray stones in the river they'd crossed to arrive here, but the threat of rain was just that. He could not imagine milder weather. And if he weren't focused on the black sphere which rested ominously in the valley below he might have been content to take a nap. Back to a tree, whiskey in his belly, and he could have slept for a thousand years.

( There was no whiskey to be had. )

There were at least twenty of them. Broad shoulders spoke of their training in the art of war. Sneering expressions as swords twisted and shifted in their hands, bristling like the quills on a pin-pig. Skandra might have thought about talking them down. Hell, he'd probably saved at least one of their lives at some point or another. Whatever connection they'd shared was probably one these soldiers believed to be imaginary, a figment of dream and invention, some other feeling that was not connected to their true face. He even opened his mouth to say something smart. Yet it closed again, just as quickly. There was no point to it. He could not think of a way to avoid bloodshed, and he could not think of a way to avoid being the one whose blood was shed. They were coming closer all the time - and there was nothing he could do to slow the advance except start a fight.

( Oh, he should have stayed in jail. )

Every tavern was exactly the same. Sure, some of the torches were fixed to the wall with brass instead of iron. Some of then were hanging from the ceiling by rusted chains, swaying every time the door opened. Every time someone had a good roll and pounded his fist on the wall in celebration. Every time a fight broke out. Skandra wasn't alarmed by any of these things, but tonight burning liquor passed his lips with a quick flick of his wrist. The pleasure of the moment wore an ugly face tonight. It was not whispering in his ear but glaring in his direction. Angry at him for what he'd done perhaps, or what he meant to do.

( Impossible to tell. )

Skandra's glove nearly slipped - for at least the fiftieth time - and he cursed the day he'd ever come to Faustben looking for a good time. Ithacles was the sort of prince to never let you forget a damned thing you did, good or bad. Maybe after this he'd try to pin something on Skandra's coat. How willing Skandra was to let the pinning commence would be directly related to how much such a fanciful brooch could be sold for. Nobody had a use for hero's marks, especially the people who wore them with pride, but Skandra did have a use for all the ale he could consume and a hero's welcome. Maybe he'd even drink for free one or two nights. More than that might make it seem like he was doing something untoward. Touchy about their honor, these soldiers. How many of them would escape punishment for what they'd done?

( It remained to be seen, this idea of what they'd done. )

There were some docks that could be unnerving. These were some of those, sturdy wood planks partially submerged in water. One could not see the legs of the thing, though the pier was well-grounded by well-intentioned men. One central platform, wide enough for six men to walk shoulder to shoulder. The smaller docks for each particular boat. The dockmaster's cabin was more of a shack, not nearly so well-constructed as the docks themselves, but that was hardly a concern. There was new coin coming to these docks. New business bringing life to what had once been nothing but a smuggler's stopping-over. There were armored men on the pier, for one. Sure, it was nothing but a leather cuirass, but it counted as armor all the same. Important men in well-woven coats with high collars. Human men, or so they appeared. Mist was rolling in from the mountains, plunging down the face of it like an unstoppable force.

( It was a perfect day for sneaking. )

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. )

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. )

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. )

Time.

It was a strangely appointed conference room. The sort of thing you never imagined seeing in all your long years of life. Skandra could look up from under the brim of his hat and see the wooden beams, which were not covered as they were in other sections of the castle. The stone ceiling actually arched above them. It looked almost like a temple of some kind, and perhaps it had been, before they realized that temples weren't as useful as large conference spaces. Then again, those were not especially useful, either. It was too early in the morning to be awake. Especially the day after your knock-down drag-out brawl resulted in twenty-five men being put to rest in the infirmary. Rumor had it that Ithunvel was ready to tear down walls. He hadn't spoken to his son yet, and the only face he'd seen so far was Lethe's. As soon as she arrived back from the farm. Apparently she'd been keeping some things from Ithunvel, as well.

( Not that Skandra suspected her of anything. )

A courtyard was a broad sort of opening purposed for nothing. It had smooth stone, sometimes engraved, always carefully cut and arranged just so. In this case, a flat square pattern that ran the length and width of the courtyard, made from gray stone - cut in the center with a hollow circle of red stone. Around the edges of said courtyard was a covered walkway, sloping ceilings of still more stone supported by columns. Not just any columns, of course. Square-cut columns that had scenes from Faustben's history engraved upon them. A chariot aflame, its rider being dragged behind as a chimera followed. Skandra did not believe for a moment that anyone from Faustben had ever fought a chimera - hell, he did not even believe that a chimera could truly exist - but there it was, right next to depiction of battle after battle. This was a courtyard that belonged to soldiers, made by soldiers for the express use of soldiers.

( Probably why it made him nervous. )

The castle was the sort of thing you did not believe until you saw it.

Built into the side of a mountain, as a great deal of Faustben seemed to be, the area before one approached the gates was heavily wooded. Pines and other hardy trees clung to the mountain dirt mercilessly, where grass would sometimes struggle to find purchase. There were patches of it here and there, well-cultivated, but the trees were the thing. The stone rode, like the walls of similar make, seemed to wind serpentine around the crags and sharp relief of the mountain's face. Even with trees all around them Skandra could see the flags flying high, blue and white and stolid, from each of the bastions built into the castle's wall. The thing must have been forty feet or more in height - more than enough to tower over opposing forces - but the main thing were the glimpses of snowy white and solid blue cloaks that one could catch glimpses of through the crenelated parapet. There must have been five dozen of them up there, where the towers exceeded the walls in height by a good twenty feet, but only those flashing glimpses alerted anyone that guards patrolled the heights. Skandra thought the old stone looked worn, but it was only the coloration.

( The castle itself looked like a beast. )

Faustben, Skandra decided, was not the sort of place where one took their ease.

Since he'd come here - ostensibly to see his old friend Ithacles - he'd been punched, nearly stabbed, clubbed, and dragged. His head ached like a thousand soldier's feet after the hard desert march. His hands were sore from laying about him like hammers. And his purse was empty. The worst of it was, he'd known for a fact that he could have diced with those idiots all night and never lost a round, but there'd been that fellow with a cigar chomped between his teeth. Smelled like four-day old cheese curd and looked like it, too. To amuse himself Skandra was spinning the tin cup he'd been given on his finger, twirling it forward and backward, listening to the odd whistle that it generated while he glared through the bars at his jailer. This fellow, too, could have smelled like something more pleasant. Then again prisoners would not appreciate it it. What occupied his thoughts, and the reason for his tension, was simple. He was fairly certain one of the men he'd been gambling with was a soldier in the palace of the king. And he was fairly certain that fellow had been talking about selling himself to the highest bidder.

( His memory was so good, after a beating like that. )