The path into the mountain sloped and curved in ways neither Vera nor her brother could predict. They tripped into each other like babes in the dark so often that Vera began to lose all sense of direction. Her eyesight was just good enough that she could anticipate enough not to run into a wall. She tried to keep track of time by counting the beats of her heart as the Meditations of Armas taught, but rhythm was useless against the sounds of Gavrie’s boots. Vera felt shame that she could not find her place in the descending caverns or in Time. Gavrie never traveled ahead of her, though. He never turned his head to look upon her weakness. This did not occur to Vera until her legs felt leaden. There had been a halting rhythm to her brother‘s gait. When she stopped and slid down the black, stone wall, Gavrie was eager to collapse beside her.

“We’re in the middle of the road,” Vera pointed out in a whisper.

“Who cares,” Gavrie replied in a voice just as soft. “If something down here is looking to kill us, they’ll come regardless of where we sit.”

( ... )

The sun dwelled far from Vera and her siblings as they traveled up the steepest run of Bathnat Pass. Dirt on the path felt like hard stone -- how little it yielded beneath their boots! Above them, red-hatted summits peeled back layers of mist and cloud and glared sternly at them. Vera did not believe the poems read at Armas' temples about the majesty of mountains -- the ledges wore sharp armor and what little flowers bloomed by the road often shriveled and died. The Fire Peak Mountains were only concerned with the stars or what hammers resided in their depths. Vera didn't like the look of the peaks, but their appearance also lent her bits of the late evening sky…

Better than darkness.

( One guide led... )

Rough, percussive scraping steel rung through the Simic Room. This morning deserved more quiet; it was early spring when the apple blossoms in the concourse of J'or were most fragrant. Vera tasted sweetness in the air with heavy breaths and she brought her sword up to block her brother. Faxril followed her around the circular mats as a serpent might, his eyes dead of emotion and his own breaths passing in and out of his body as nothing more than a quiet hiss. He was a few hands taller than she was. Faxril was just exiting the lanky awkwardness of adolescence that she had yet to enter, the muscles of his arms were defined and seemed more intimidating when he was effortlessly steering his sword blade for her throat. He was barely sweating when he came at her; all the while Vera’s muscles burned beneath her skin.

Rahmil shouted form at her. The large beast of a man, clothed in the black and red uniform of an Oranian Teacher lingered by the arches that opened up to the concourse. He was watching only her motions. He did not need to watch Faxril. Faxril, he said, was more ready than any of them to lead men. He did not need to spar with someone so young. But that was why she was here. It was why Vera challenged Rahmil to let her spar with her brother. Father’s eyes were most pleasant when they fell on Faxril. People smiled at him in the halls. And Rahmil did not curse at him or hit him after a match.

( Vera wanted to show Rahmil that she could stand this... )

His ears were ringing even still.

Not normally one for indulging in alcohol had its benefits. He was free to avoid the red-faced mockery that pursued such souls inside the walls of the Castel. But perhaps most of all he was free from the possibility of losing control. That ache behind his eyes which would not abate, no matter how he pinched his nose. This sore jaw which was purpling with each passing moment. Insistent hands were pressing into the side of his face. Trying to smear away blood, find the source of the wound. Eragos was seated on an overturned crate, boots pulled high and trousers stuffed into the tops of his boots. Not his uniform. Plain tan trousers, a short coat that ended just above his belt, and a high collar that currently rested against the back of his neck. Should have been blood on it. He touched the fabric with bare hands.

( Blood. )

The grass of the cherry orchards were soft in early summer, but never full of mud. How was the ground so perfect here and so uneven in other places? Was it magic, or simply good landscaping? Her feet felt comforted as she walked around Bahamut's stone temple and into the neat rows of trees whose branches were a mix of brilliant green and soft white. Her pack was slung across her shoulder as she tilted her head up to the sky -- so far blue ruled the heavens, meaning she wouldn't have to perform the first day of her duties here in miserable weather. Vera smiled slightly and pushed back her hood. The white uniform was enough. She wasn't going to be in full formal attire only to be mocked by the large creature lazing amidst the trees.

Captain Agrippa assigned her to guard the dragon only for a few turns of the sun. The bruise on her cheek was the only remnant of the fight that sent her here, outside all of trouble Trone's Merchant Guild was causing the Captain as she walked around in the sun. Vera entered the opening in the trees with a sigh and let her shoulder strap slip down the crook of her arm, into her hand. There was another white uniform there with her. Vera put her free hand over her brow to shade her eyes and realized she recognized the dark hair of the woman. It was the girl Eragos trained, Eithne. And she was producing puffs of smoke that might have been used to signal armies, ( had only they been in a time of war... )

The weight of her headpiece -- garnet strung together with amber and other stones she could not name -- forced Vera to tilt her neck more than usual. Muscles along her shoulders were stiff, which in turn made her sit straighter. Her posture was almost always lousy when she was alone and she missed the opportunity to slouch when no one was there to judge her. The Hunter's Moon shone through the carriage window and the light seemed far away, even though the moon was so large. She wished she could pull the glass from its panes and feel the wind rushing past. Riding by horse just north of the Black Deer Plains was always an exhilarating feeling. Even when out on a task, it could make a Rider feel free. The wheels of the carriage were spinning fast now. Vera could almost feel the strain on the axles below. There was no helping the pace. They needed to make good time to get back to the Free Cities, to switch out the Riders guarding her for soldiers from Lord Faxril's company. If anyone knew she broke the terms of her agreement with the Beiten-K‘danav, Vera would be confined to the country as punishment. Her fingers moved restlessly against the silk of her dress, her calluses catching along invisible snags.

( Eistocene and Trone rarely quarrelled... )

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... )

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... )

A feast day was a fine thing, in Astora. From his window Eragos could see parades of men marching in the street, playing all instruments of almost every kind, and in the livery of noble houses. it was latticed in iron, this window, with stained glass but for the winged messengers of Armas who carried each a sword and shield. It was through these winged creatures that he peered down, and out, but the novelty wore off quickly. Sitting on a stone sill, waiting for the rain to let up, had the appeal of sitting on stone to stay out of the rain. It was precisely that exciting. Eragos felt every ounce of every wound that had been inflicted on him since departing Malondir. Even if most of those injuries had been healed by one of the court mages who danced attendance on the prince and his. Quite a sight, riding into the city like that, throwing up a column of dust and flying the prince's colors ahead of them like a weapon. They'd had enough time to open the gate and little else.

( That was all the time that was needed. )

Each jostling of the wagon, brought on by poorly made wheels which seemed more square than round reminded Eragos of the pain that he was in. Even if the healing had worked he was still swathed in bandages. Those and the exhaustion creeping through his limbs made him unable to do more than grunt sourly when another rough patch was struck by the driver, who seemed perpetually in search of them. It was an oddity to his eyes but probably a necessity. Covered on all sides, including top and back. Really a box that was drawn by horses with a driver outside of it. This was no way to travel; he wanted to be able to breath in cool and flowing air. Instead he was staring at the toes of his boots and wondering whether or not they were going to make it to the capitol this way. The four of them, a king and a princess and a lady and a mercenary, were not precisely the most suited to avoiding notice.

( Take the last. )

She had only gone barefoot because the stairs were slick from the rain. The stone felt easier to navigate when she could feel it beneath her toes; Vera liked to think she was the only expert of these stairs. Half inside and half exposed to the elements of the mountain, the tower they led to had remained unfinished for months. Servants of the household said the High Lord insulted the dwarf craftsman who came to make the addition onto the manor. Their tongues, though they flapped regularly, were rarely wrong. So Vera knew these steps would eventually lead to a new library, or a training hall, or a solar. Still, she liked to pretend that at the top, in the midst of the elements, was the Unseen Tower. Her tower. There she had property and an invisible army better than any that anyone could compete for in the Red House. Better than her siblings could dream of.

Vera smiled as she scrambled along the curve of the stair and around the corner which kept her out of sight from the rest of the hall. The wind of the outdoors was strong, it pulled at the edges of her hair. Dark clouds gathered around Eistocene. From the stair she could see them rolling in off the Acierran Plains like a massive dragon, spreading its wings and roaring with ferocious jowls opened wide. Her small fingers grasped the edges of her cloak as she pressed against the rock wall, slowly moving along until she was at the edge of the steps where there was a small, flat platform with ornate carvings along the borders. For the most part, the carvings were just squares and diamonds arranged in odd ways. Vera spent enough time here, however, that she knew where to look for the small bears and spears scattered within the shapes. She sketched the uniforms of her men based off these carvings, drew the spears and swords that they'd carry into battle, the gleaming helmets and shields that would catch the sun. Vera slid to the edge of the platform, dangling her feet over the edge and looking down at the rocks below. The weather here was sharp and unforgiving to everyone but her.

( ... )

The old wooden chair creaked and whined as Vera shifted her weight, leaning back slightly on the loose legs. A healthy fire roared in the hearth but she was the only soul in the kitchen with the exception of the healer who passed through for hot water and the occasional herb Vera could name but didn't. The healer needed these things for the wound as much as the potential sickness hovering over Eragos like a shadow. A local mage and medicine man was the only one Vera could bribe to help them. Holy magic, for some reason, did not work on Eragos. The first temple they visited, a temple of Lorien, refused to help him at all. One of the priests cursed and spit at her for bringing him there.

"Don't you know what those markings mean?" the priest shouted at her, pointing at Eragos arms. "Get out."

Vera probably hadn't helped the situation when she called the priest's religion a collection of superstitions and hypocritical oaths. Eragos hadn't seemed particularly charmed with her then. Lady Cithia had been horrified. She thought she'd done well. She could have fought the priest for spitting at her, a daughter of a powerful lord. She should have. Her childhood teachers would have named her weak for walking away. But the tattoos were none of her business. Vera didn't know why they should inspire a holy man to abandon a good man and didn't care to.

Instead of retaliating, Vera added that anger to the rest she carried along and led them here. A shack in the middle of the forest that she learned about from threatening a local with one of her knives. Normally she had a more diplomatic mind, but Eragos had been running low on time. He hadn't been harmed in the battle with Sir Galatin, as the King suspected, but he had managed to tear open the stitches she'd done. Vera saw the blood after Eragos got to his feet. He was bleeding far too long by the time they'd reached this medicine man. Lady Cithia and her father slept in the side room as the healer did his work. Vera sat at a table by the hearth.

For a White Rider there was no better place to rest than a kitchen.

"You shouldn't lean that way," the healer muttered from the doorway.

"I won't fall over," Vera replied, not looking at him.

There was a small hmph from the old man. "I'm more worried about my chair."

"You should be worried about my friend."

The healer scowled at her and went back into the room. Vera counted it as a blessing. There was one less person she was tempted to point a knife at in this world.

Mist pushed over the ground in the early morning, making the dirt roads hazy under the rising sun. Frost cracked free of the trees and filled the fields with soft noise. Lady Cithia had a smile on her face. The King's brow was not as creased as it was the night before. They were nearing Rutelas. The thatch roofs poked through the haze like miniature mountain peaks. An insignificant circle of cottages in the shadow of the forest, the village was not enough to be considered civilization. Farmers were known to enter the wilderness for the sake of finding "gold soil"; they worked the land and brought their goods into the centers of commerce hoping to create the premium product. By making a name for themselves, a name was earned for the village. That village had the potential to lay the groundwork for a town and one day, a city. Oisea was such a village once. It was a lucrative and dangerous venture, but a respectable one considering the luck involved. Vera chose to enter Rutelas because of its obscurity. This was a new settlement. The wood used to build the homes still looked fresh. No one would believe a princess would seek rest here.

Since there were no established store or inn, Vera had her party rest their horses in front of a farmer's house. She paid the man in gold for the use of the space and water. The farmer was shocked enough by her use of wealth to keep quiet. Gold was hard to come by in a place like this. Vera was here for the small market that nomads set up in the center of the village. She explained this to Lady Cithia as the girl kept up with Vera's brisk walking pace -- the princess did not seem to believe in slow grace as much as she used to. Caravans were not uncommon so close to the Gate. Traveling merchants would do anything to get some profit before having to travel the human misery dwelling between Malondir and Astora.

"What do you want to buy?" Lady Cithia asked. "Do you think they have fruit?"

Vera laughed. Fruit in winter. She shook her head. "We're here for supplies. Our traveling is far from done, my Lady, and we lost some in our run through the Gate."

There was also the small chance that they might stumble across a horse suitable for making the ride to the capitol with them. Although Gildas was easy when having two people on his back, it made defensive maneuvers far easier if Eragos rode separately from the Princess. There was also the princess' image to consider. Riding into Malondir with a man was not appropriate for a woman of rank. Enough tension was pushing on the negotiations without starting something with Malondir's prince.

She was again reminded of the distant end to their journey. Eragos' brief humorous answer to her question at the campfire stuck in her brain -- sleep. She wondered if she would have the opportunity to sleep when the princess was safe. She wondered if she should have invited Eragos to Simanel last night. There was always an honest job in Simanel. There was no need for him to be a mercenary after all this was done. At the same time, offering him work was a line she didn't feel she had the right to cross just yet. They were barely friends. He might come to think she was trying to be charitable, rather than kind.

Vera drew up her hood and kept Lady Cithia close as they approached the small marketplace. Lacking in civilization or not, she only trusted merchants as far as she could throw them. Eragos and the King walked not far behind. Eragos would have to be their eyes while she tried to bargain. Her mask was over her face now. Her uniform was usually helpful in rural areas because people believed her to be part of a religious order or knighthood. People were always easier to influence when they thought one believed in the divine.

She stopped first at a small stand of dried meats. The vendor stood beside the salt pork with a large grin.

"I prefer rabbit," Lady Cithia said to Vera. "This is disgusti--"

Vera gave the princess a sharp look. If she could have told a monarch to shut up, she would have. Instead, she turned her eyes on the offended merchant and did her best to convey a charming smile behind her mask. It didn't matter, she thought. Damage done. The price here was going to be high.

Eragos sat back on his heels as the fire roared to life. Somewhere in the deep wood beyond the gates, beyond the walls with their collapsing stone and vicious twisting paths, Eragos could allow himself just a slight amount of rest. Lady Cithia and the King had already taken to dreams. Dreams where the world was not so ugly, or dreams where its ugliness defied description? He would have asked if he thought the answer was worth knowing. He was almost certain of which, and didn't want to know. Hopefully he could convince himself that they were not so bad. The dreams. Despite the cold he'd stripped off the tunic - it was in tatters now, and not worth wearing - to get a closer look at his wound. Or rather, to let the Lady Vera stitch it. Patching his own injuries was not a talent of Eragos Feareborne. There were few enough things that were these days.

( Most of them were foul. )

There were always stories to go in advance of a thing, to let you know its grandeur and its status. Despite repeated descriptions from the Lady Cithia - regardless of whether he wanted them or not - Eragos found he was unprepared for the sight of it. A massive structure that rose impossibly high into the narrow throat of the valley with mists that obscured its true height swirling above them. Eragos pulled the cloak tighter around him, including the hood of grey wool that had been sewn onto it by a gracious pair of homeowners. Something about this land was strange and monstrous. There were multiple pathways around them, with wooden bridges that started on the ground and took winding labyrinthian courses for the sky. Of course, Eragos noted with dismay that the gate was not one gate but five, smaller sliding doors in the massive wall of stone and steel. Each door was at a different height. He realized abruptly that all of the pathways led to the gates themselves, which were distant to his eyes but had a stone scaffold of their own built in. This was where the soldiers perched.

( Perched, and watched. )

Eragos lifted the crossbow to his shoulder with a fair amount of trepidation. It was easier to say than to do when it came to weapons of this sort. He was never good with weapons of this sort. Mostly because he considered them to be wastes of time if not outright dishonorable weapons. Remembering how to make a repeating crossbow from a set of plans he'd seen and knowing anyone with the woodworking skills required was something else entirely. There were only four crossbows between them, and rudimentary designs at best. Every quarrel was worth its weight in gold by this time. He couldn't afford to miss the target, or to go digging through the snow for hours looking for it. So when he placed the stock against his shoulder and peered through the eyeslit Eragos knew he couldn't miss. But if he didn't miss, it was more luck than skill. Showing someone how to use the crossbow effectively was the work of a master, not of a knight who put all of his faith in his sword and was rewarded for it. Still, the snap was even and rewarding. That wooden dummy - nothing more than a bowl for a head, with rushes and sticks tied together as a body - suffered a blow to the body, and would have been dead if it had been real.

( The Lady Cithia clapped more enthusiastically than she should have. )

Somehow or another they'd found a cottage in the winter of the land that had beds to spare. Eragos could remember each terrible step that had brought them here. Until his legs were unsteady and his hands numb with cold. The wound had surrendered a great deal of blood, the owner of the cottage said, but he should be fine in a day or two. Until then? Until then he was as useless to them as any invalid. Yet he refused to rest, he refused to make himself into true dead weight. If his father had ever lost blood in battle he walked until he forced his body to make enough. There was always more blood, always more fire to bring out of a creature. And Valos Feareborne had found most of it. So standing in the cold, with the vibrations of his flambard ringing in his ears, Eragos wondered why his limbs still felt cold and wretched. How long did Valos work at such things before he achieved the end he intended? It seemed long enough ago that Eragos couldn't remember. So he drove the blade into the snow, and thought about what the dawn would bring. Change. For the first time since he'd left his home he rode with a purpose. And a good purpose, an honorable one, at that.

( That troubled him. )

Endless snow, as far as the eye could see, as though it had consumed the entire world and still did not plan on stopping. Eragos had lived in the north for most of his life. Weather like this was spring, back home, and he welcomed it. Warmer by far than the dead of winter. At the head of the column in that flowing cloak of purple and gold rode the lone king's man. Barada. He'd demonstrated a tendency for laying hands upon women and spitting. Knight. If he were a knight, a true knight, Eragos would have challenged him to a duel. There was no reason to think Barada would have accepted such a proposal. And even if he did, it was pointless to think about. Fighting a duel was not the reason he was here. It had developed that travel in winter, when the roads were either iced or fouled with mud, became necessary for the king of Astora. Since many of his liege men had retired to their estates for the winter it had become necessary to hire a force of armed guards for the journey. That he was one of those guards, Eragos could not deny. Yet he doubted the rest of them even knew what the word 'honor' meant - let alone how to live with it. Brigands and thieves, and mercenaries if not. The latter being little better than the former in his mind.

( Two countries. )

The steps that led into Gerard Hall were obviously designed by a lord, or someone with a great deal of money to spare. Eragos couldn't help but eye the lines stitched together by careful chisel shots with an eye for the beauty of the detail, even if he'd seen them before. And on this cold winter night while he waited for Vargis to appear Eragos didn't have anything else of particular importance to do. Unlike many of the other White Riders arriving for the Solstice Ball he'd disdained the brown cloak and kept his white tunic at the fore. Although the hood was down, and his mask was nowhere in sight, it still made him feel as though he was on duty in some way. He wasn't of course. Even if the falchion had the heaviness that triggered his alertness, he was not on duty. Buckler was left in his room. As was the flambard. Neither one of them would be needed on this night. A soft pale snow was falling and dusting the stair with powder, but so far the storm was little more than a warning of things to come. All of them were glad to be in Simanel tonight. Those who were just back from assignment, or those preparing to leave, or those who never did leave.

A long winter, a chilled spring and a hot summer in the northern land of Kenyon had removed any immediate desire on his part to see a foreign section of the world again. Without too much complaint at all they'd given him the post in Oisea, and now all he had to do was watch the younglings practice and deal with the day to day operations of a small circle of cottages. It sounded like just the thing. Smell of foul orc flesh being ignited and burned as offering to the god of war still lingered in his nostrils. Maybe it would never disappear. That was his first true 'war', in the way that one defined such things. Eragos didn't know if he had it in him to face another one. Battle was one thing, but war was pure slaughter for no good purpose. Orcs could not be reasoned with, but they could be defeated, and if the cost of that defeat in lives was too high to contemplate rationally he could at least be thankful that he was not the one who had to contemplate such things. Especially in a rational frame of mind. The chill had penetrated his high boots, with the trousers stuff inside to shield his calves from the worst of the cold, but he ignored it.

( It was easy to ignore, now. )