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. )

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. )

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. )

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... )

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.

( ... )

Vera did not understand why everyone came to her. She did not know how to organize a funeral. On the road, men were either left behind or buried. Caskets were not chosen, venues were not cleared and secured. She did not have to write four dozen letters to place a man in the ground or the sea. There was memory, regrets and good-bye.

( He deserved a funeral. )

Dinaden sprinted across the lawns of the Lord's Manor as if they were once again in the plains west of the Free Cities, Vera leaning forward and riding high on the saddle. The speed felt brutal even after being healed, but she wasn't slowing for the three Riders behind her. Not for the first time did the unease at leaving men behind cross her heart. Eragos and Sleeping Tiger both were core parts of their group now. Bahn was right to catch Eragos' arm. Bahn was right to keep the former knight under the Arches.

( So why did it still feel wrong? )

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... )

Vera ran her fingers across the ring she'd been given just an hour ago. Occasionally she would slip it over her thumb and roll it back and forth over her knuckle. The ring belonged to High Lord Arand and bore the symbol of his House -- twin falcons -- carved over and over in gold. A large, bright garnet in the center was said to contain the blood of his ancestors. She felt uncomfortable with the ring in her hands, as if all of the sudden the metal would feel like flesh and begin to speak. Vera bit at her lip and stared down at the city below where mourners had gathered. On a light-less balcony, she was a phantom to all the people below. The High Lord had concern for assassins. Perhaps he knew the sick feeling in her heart, that she wished they would return so that she might fight them again.

At this height the mourners seemed like fireflies, spiraling over and over, stuck on the honey of death. Vera looked down and felt she should be on the street, that she should feel small after everything that happened. Yet instead she was with a Knight whose armor caught none of the light around him; instead the metal was as black as the gaps between stars. Ridgar who was not at all like the knights of storybooks. Nor was he a knight like Eragos had been. He was speaking to her in his dry brittle voice with eyes void of feeling for the mourners. Vera was trying to pay attention. She was going to take the Riders into the Great Libraries without assistance. She would guide them to a place she'd never visited.

Rotating the ring in her hand again, she began to wonder why not Ridgar? Why couldn't he be a guide? Why would the High Lord set her to this task when it might cost them time? She despised not knowing where she was going.

( Lady Vera, there are three Arches of Inalen... )

The cape pinned to Vera's shoulders was the proper color as dictated by the uniform code all Riders followed, but against her back the fabric felt too light and too smooth. Her cloak had been lost in the battle for the Lower Courts; while her uniform was saved, it was only so that another could be made. In truth, she only wore bits and pieces of the white that she'd ridden into Agethlea with. Vera's gloved fingers moved briefly over the emblem of the Free Cities that was stitched in black at her chest, before she fiddled with the foreign bit of silverwork that kept her cape in place. The same Dwarven hands that made this pin had made the knives now resting in the wide leather belt encircling her middle. How Elden managed to afford weapons from a Dwarf's forge was a mystery, but that fit in line with the sorcerer's nature. They had been gifts to help her, to cheer her up. And that was another mystery. Vera had not known Elden very long, but he'd managed to see how much she'd needed her uniform back.

( Sun warmed her hair through her hood... )

Vera used to believe he truly was so absorbed in the papers he studied. When she was a child she would wait patiently at the edge of the office desk, covered in parchment and leather-bound manuscripts, until High Lord Arand finally peered at her and invited her to sit.

She always came here when she wasn't supposed to. Over time, Vera would enter his libraries or offices and begin to pick at the texts he had fanned out over his tables, reading without permission. The longer Vera stood there, waiting for his eyes, the more questions she had. Inappropriate questions that her mother would later scold her for ("I can not believe you questioned him on the pay he receives..." or "Why on earth would you ask High Lady Linde's age?") were the ones that always made the edges of the High Lord's eyes crinkle. It took time to learn that the crinkling was a form of a smile. Even when it wasn't stretching his mouth upward. Eyes could smile. Vera always thought it strange until she began to see such smiles in others. Until he taught her to smile that way too...

"Be careful with those smiles of yours," High Lord Arand told her with mock sternness, "You never know what havoc they could cause."

She tugged at a piece of paper on his desk tonight. Her fingers bent the edge back and forth. The large fire in the hearth to their left disguised the sound of the parchment so that it did not disturb the High Lord. Vera saw the text, but did not have the heart to read it. Instead she listened to the sharp edge of the High Lord's pen scraping along thin paper. Harsh, quick, precise and without pause. Normally Vera would play the game of guessing what he was writing. This would ease her heart. Instead she kept thinking about...

( What would you like for your Birth Day? )

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... )

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. )