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. )

"Is that whiskey?"

Elden tucked the bottle back into his sleeve at the accusatory question. Hasna. He might as well have been turning to face a Drow for all the murder that was in her eyes. Ever since he came to the aide of the White Riders, he noticed that the women among them had a fine talent for catching him drink at the worst possible times. And he couldn't seem to wring a bit of sympathy from any of them. Elden could not exactly explain to Hasna what stressed him so about doing battle (other than the very obvious fear of dying in an old man's skin), so he often defaulted to saying that he was a drunk and that he thought more clearly if he had his whiskey. He opened his mouth to say this to the viper behind the mask but...luckily, Elden had a brief moment to lose his idiocy.

No, he'd rather die by the blade of a Grey Rider than whatever hellish way Hasna was picturing in her head.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Elden said instead. "Do you think we should put out this fire soon?"

( The rafters had become quite bright with flame... )

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. )

The knife's blade dragged across his scalp. Every hiss, every snap of hair, was another reminder of what he did and did not do. Did and did not value. There was a mirror in his chamber to trouble his mind. There was a way to see the serpent's slit that ran down the front of his face. As much a battle standard as any banner had been, that scar, still livid and red despite the time that had passed. Talon swept the knife into the bowl, rinsing it free of hair, then returned it to its duty. All the while his eyes burned into his own reflection. How strange it must have been to see those tattoos for the first time. Eragos had always been a hard man, harder than their own father, but beneath that lay anger and pride - also in greater measure than Valos. His brother thought of himself as inferior to his parents, but he'd surpassed them in every way possible. Except, perhaps, for one. He took Vaili's idea of honor and applied it to the world around him. He proselytized about the virtues of defending the weak. Yet he did not see where that path ultimately led.

( Ruin. )

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. )

There was no other choice in Eithne's mind. Eragos would not be willing or ready to kill the last remaining member of his family. His brother was all that was left, and Eithne was inclined to think that this fact would keep Eragos from turning his blade on his brother. He might be able to start the fight, but he would not be able to finish it. Eithne didn't want to see what would happen if Eragos did find that nerve. Would the curse he thought followed him everywhere cover what was left of his soul and make it impossible for him to breath? Would killing his brother end him? She did not want to ask those questions or find the answers to them. Telling the others that she was going to smoke and check on her horse was an easy enough excuse. A believable lie. Eithne hadn't had a cigarette in hours, and her horse did need tending to just as theirs did. But they were still back in that tent talking.

( She'd heard enough to know where to go. )

All three of them sat on a thin plain bench, shoulder to shoulder, looking out at the tent before them through a curtain. It was an uncomfortable way to sit. The fabric had been visible when Eithne asked Faxril where they were wanted, but Vera had no idea he'd kept two armed guards behind here. Her brother explained, in the simplest way he could, that he rarely trusted anyone. Mages in Trone had been paid enough to make a fabric that seemed sheer on one side and solid on the other. Faxril asked them to sit and let the two guards stand in front of them, just in case.

( It was an uncomfortable way to sit. )

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... )