Chapter 7

  A Cloak and a Wand

  Moss and Tomas stood as quiet as mice, as still as stone, as from the stairwell came the irregular bumps and shuffling of a small mob. Moss held the elven cloak tight in his grip. He did not know who these Sons of Barthus were, but to his roots he knew that the cloak should not be given to them. Thoughts of breaking through their frail forms clicked through his mind like a stone upon the water. Young Tomas shook him awake, pulling at his robes, pointing further down the dark tunnels, where they might hide for a while. The thought of Tomas being twisted and broken as the belligerent man had in the morning made Moss ill of heart. And so, he followed Tomas into the dark.

  The tunnels beneath the brewer’s home did not twist or bend, but they were as long and as dark as night. The boy blew out his lantern and clutched it as hard as he could. He brought them to the furthest tunnel, where a cubby lay, hidden by shadow. If they pressed themselves in the alcove, they would not be seen from the main hall, nor would the light reach them – though only just. Tomas had thought to lead them out and through the barn, where they could flee into Solca. But he had seen them raiding other homes, and it was never just one or two; often there were some who kept outside, trawling the streets. And so he pressed himself against the stone until it hurt. He held his breath. Every gasp was a risk. His heart pounded in his chest, he felt the blood pulsing through him so harshly he feared it would be heard.

  They waited. Shuffling of clothes echoed through the halls and tunnels, broken ever so by the snapping and crackling of wood. Like thunder peals, their hammers sang through the underground. And the steps, the ragged breathing, the shifting of clothes all grew ever closer. And then came the light. It came softly at first. A cold and pale light that stretched across the floor, spilling out like trickling water into the hall. And it spread.

  Tomas dare not breathe. He dare not move. He was certain his head bled from the rugged stone. The steps of the Sons of Barthus were soft and regular, though they stumbled with every step. Like a wounded mare, they shuffled. It felt like an eternity. Every moment he did not breathe felt like his last, that his lungs might burst, that his chest might wither away. And into their tunnel, the light came. With it came the squeal of metal as the lantern rocked back and forth. The light whispered. The light whispered, “Come forward”. He looked up to Moss, who stared at the far wall, ever the same expression cut into his face like a statue or a helm. And Tomas held his breath a little longer.

  Yet eventually, the light passed them by, and the steps faded. And so Tomas let the smallest, faintest sigh. But in the quiet, sound travels. And his sigh echoed through the halls like a distant, impossible wind. The stumbling song of the Sons of Barthus halted, they halted for a moment. And then ran one. And then ran another. Tomas stepped out to flee, but it was too late. The cold and pale light spilled into the tunnel, and the strangers, sickly and thin, clogged the only way out. Tomas scrambled back. But Moss stepped forward, the cloak still in his grasp.

  Moss looked upon their thin, brittle forms. He was certain he could break them. But Tomas? What would Tomas do when they came? When the Sons of Barthus saw the cloak, they drew closer. “Give us the relic!” they demanded. “Hand it to us and you will live.”

  Tomas recoiled, trying to pull himself inside the wall, inside the very stone. But he could not.

  And then Moss spoke. “Hold onto me,” he told Tomas in a quiet and lumbering voice. The boy did as he was told and wrapped his arms around Moss’ forearm.

  Moss charged. He thundered down the hall and broke through the strangers before they could close in. Bones snapped and blood spilled, but the Sons of Barthus did not make a sound; silently they fell to the ground, wordlessly they stabbed at Moss with daggers and swords as he passed them by. “To the right!” Tomas shouted, “Head to your right!” And Moss followed. The boy could scarcely hold firm. Tomas’ legs dangled in the air, and his fingers began to slip from the rough arms of Moss, even though he dug his nails in. His footfalls were like war drums, like the felling of trees, they filled the tunnels. They did not run for long, soon coming to where the tunnels sloped up and to a large wooden gate.

  Tomas hopped off and pressed his finger to his lips. Quietly, he crept up the slope and peered out into the barn. They were there too. Milling about like flies. He motioned for Moss to draw closer, and together they slunk into the barn, hiding behind great casks yet to be filled. As he looked out, it was clear that there was nowhere left to run.

  “I’ll be on the front in a few months, what is a few less?” he mouthed to himself. Damn them! He thought. Damn them all! It is my village and my cloak! Tomas looked up to Moss and tugged on his blue coat. “Hide the cloak. I will distract them, and you will run.” When the golem did not answer, he continued. “They will let me go if I don’t have it.”

  Moss nodded and stuffed the fine cape into his great, blue hat.

  Tomas ran out towards the back, where an opening overlooked a small alley. And with all his might, he kicked a bucket, which lay on the floor. It crashed into the wall, and its sound filled the barn. The Sons of Barthus all looked to him. And as they did, he fled, vaulting through the opening. They charged after him with such speed that, to Moss, they seemed more animal than man.

  But once they passed, Moss crept out of the barn and into the empty streets. He was alone. There was only the wind and the shrieking of birds. And though he strained himself, it seemed the strangers did not yell or call out as they chased the boy. He wasted little more time contemplating this and tried desperately to find a place to hide. But where could a creature such as him hide away? Moss thought for a moment to collect Kugo, but the thought of him being bent and twisted or made a fool of by some other weapon made Moss shudder. Yet he could not remain in the streets.

  He wandered until he came to the gates of the city. As mighty as he was, he could not break past them, at least not with certainty. He could perhaps scale the walls and run into the woods, making a great deal of noise and clamour, so to draw them out. And Moss nearly did so, until he recalled that Nephis was in their hive. Swarmed by them. Who is to say they would not hurt her? Who was to say they were not hurting her? And he was stuck. Frozen in the shadows. They should not hurt her, so long as they believed Tomas had the cloak. But how long would that be?

  Nephis sat in the parlor of the mayor’s occupied home. The Sons of Barthus hardly spoke, but they had three or four at any time in the room with her. Cold drink and food sat before her. She dare not trust it. Nephis had tried to press them for any information she could. Asking them what their purpose was or what the artifact they sought was. And they told her in cold, dull voices the same thing she already knew. That they wanted an artifact of the elves, so as to further their search. She asked who their leader was, “Barthus,” they answered, “Lord of Dawn,” but they offered little more.

  She slumped over, stewing in frustration. She had gotten little more than a title, likely a self-granted one. They were shut like traps, and she had little she was willing to offer them. But, she thought, what if she offered them a lie? One they could only verify far from here.

  “Ahem,” she sat straight as a lady should. “You there,” she called to the most senior-seeming one. At the very least, he was the tallest and had been granted the key to the room, which was unlocked for now. “I must confess, it is not only you who searches for the Stone.”

  The doorman stood still, only looking at her.

  “What is your name, sir?” she asked.

  He paused for a moment, “Mara,” he eventually said.

  What an odd name, she thought to herself. “Mara, surely your master would appreciate a hint yet undiscovered? No doubt you might find yourself with a promotion?”

  “No,” he answered in a steely voice. “I have my purpose. I need no other.”

  Nephis gave a faltering laugh. “But even still, your Lord no doubt wants any secret he can find, no?”

  The Son of Barthus did not answer.

  “Well, what if I told you my work for the Emperor, and your hunt for the Valai Kei might be one and the same?”

  Mara stood totally still, as if paralyzed for a moment, thinking and stewing. “Does the Emperor also seek the Valai Kei?” he asked, his bluing face devoid of any feeling.

  “That depends. Do you have any secrets you would trade to me?” she asked coyly.

  He paused again and wrapped on the door three times. Mara whispered something to a man behind it. Shortly, their leader entered the room, his arm freshly stitched. “What does the Emperor know?” he asked in his flat and dry voice, speaking in a strange way, as if the idea of a tongue or lips was unnatural to him.

  “Can you promise me information in return?” she asked, “It is only fair.”

  He fell still, not blinking or moving, only gazing at something not there. And then his eyes flitted to her, “Your offer is accepted.”

  “There is a man by the name of Wadiam,” she began and watched the speaker. He remained still as always. “Wadiam has been working to translate the language of the White Towers, the people of the Black Period.” The Black Period was called this as few writings or histories survived from then; it was a deep and dry well of knowing, a great gash in time. “And he has done it. Can you believe that? All the servants of the crown could not uncover this ancient tongue, but he has. Do you know him, this Wadiam?”

  The speaker stood still as stone for a long while, continuing to look in the space where she sat. The great watermill of his mind slowly turning. “I do,” he answered stiffly. “How is the language read?” he asked.

  “Oh, well, I would not know,” Nephis deflected the question. “He does not belong to us, in that sense. The Emperor has merely kept his watchful eye on him.”

  “Then how do you know?” The speaker pressed.

  “Wadiam is a member of an imperial scholariam, though which one, I do not know. That information was not entrusted to me. Nor is his name truly Wadiam, it is a pseudonym, though I suppose you already knew that. But merely knowing the language has been translated is not enough for you?” Nephis lied through smiling lips.

  The speaker did not answer.

  “The language of the White Towers is most similar to Soilahan, the tongue of the Ebedi Devlit.” The thought of it was ridiculous, so ridiculous that the Son of Barthus must assume it was entirely true or she was entirely mad. A language written in a place and of a people, but spoken in the tongue of a far-distant neighbor who had only just come to this land a hundred years ago. “Well, what secrets do you have for me?” she asked.

  “This is foolishness,” the speaker answered, “You are deceived.”

  “Do you not believe me?” she asked. “That is fine, that is good. But how far has your Barthus come in translating the runes? How many times must he circle the same stone?”

  And for the first time, the speaker showed a hint of emotion. Doubt. Though this quickly faded. “The Valai Kei was the treasure of Man, not the elves,” he revealed.

  “And yet you seek after treasures of the elves?” Nephis asked in surprise.

  “The Stone was the demise of the elves,” he answered.

  And a grim silence fell over Nephis. Where the elves had gone was a mystery to all. They left behind great tracks in time, art and cities, weapons and studies, and yet they were nowhere. As if they had vanished into the mist, purged by the dawn.

  She prepared to press him for more, to ask how they knew. But all of the sudden, the Sons of Barthus were still and gazed into the corners of the room. And their heads turned to her, their eyes sharp and cold.

  Moss stood before a door that had been busted in by the cabal of strangers. There was nowhere but indoors where he could hide. All Moss could do was hope they might be understanding. He pressed open the crooked door. The family within was in the process of cleaning up broken wood and torn curtains. There were two daughters, a mother, and the father, who limped from one end to another. But all froze when Moss bent through the doorway. The children scrambled back while the father threw himself forward. Though low and trembling, he still stuck out his arms as wide as they might go. “What do you want? Are you with them?” he demanded in a terse voice. “I’ve already told you, we don’t have it!”

  “No. I need to hide.” Moss answered. And when they did not reply, “Hide me from the strangers,” he tried again.

  “Why should I?” the father barked, “We don’t want any trouble, just go!”

  “Please,” Moss pleaded in a low, humming voice. “My friends will be hurt if they find me.”

  “No. You have to go. I have a family,” the father denied him again.

  Moss noticed the tear in the father’s trousers, and that there was a spot of blood. He stepped to the father, who scrambled back. Even still, Moss was upon him, and reached out his great claws over the wound. And little mushrooms and lichen sprouted from the gash, and the tightness in his leg faded. The father patted his leg, and finding it healed, looked at Moss in astonishment.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “Nephis and Kugo will be twisted,” Moss pleaded again.

  They draped Moss in a large sheet and placed him near the debris. It was not a good disguise, but as the home was little more than two large rooms, it was as much as could be hoped for. Before they hid him away, Moss made one more request. “Bring Tomas the Brewer here,” he asked, “Do not let him be caught.” The father winced at the request but begrudgingly accepted, so long as no risk came to him or his family.

  He sat for what must have been an hour, though he couldn’t know, for the house had no windows and the sky was yet grey. The family did not speak to him, or hardly even acknowledge him. He clutched his hat and the cloak tightly to his chest as if they were precious things. And so Moss sat, utterly still, waiting. But then came the creaking of the door and a quiet rush, as someone sat next to him.

  “It’s me, Tomas,” he whispered, “I’m glad you’re alright.”

  “Is Liliana alright?” Moss quietly asked.

  “Liliana?” Tomas jumped, “I should hope so. She’s holed up with her family last time I saw her.”

  Moss was quiet for a while.

  “Girls,” the father called, “Where is your mother?” he asked.

  “She went out,” the younger of the two answered, “She went to speak with Missus Catarina.”

  The father grumbled. “Why would she do that?”

  “She said it was important,” the older said.

  “I should really go get her,” the father fussed. “Tomas, lad, you know this creature?”

  “I do, sir,” Tomas answered, “He is trustworthy.”

  “Good. Could you watch over the girls for a moment?” he asked, “I need to run next door. My foolish wife has decided to run off at a time like this.”

  “Of course, sir,” Tomas replied.

  “Thank you,” the father said and crept out the door.

  It was strange. Moss had not heard anyone leave, she must have been rather quiet, like a mouse working to scurry away unseen. And for a while, the house was quiet again. And Moss’ thoughts began to wander. “I am worried, Tomas,” he said. “Nephis is in the Barthus house.”

  “Yes, you mentioned that.” Tomas’ voice was pale; it was clear, even to Moss, that the thought bothered him. “Did they take her?” he asked.

  “No,” Moss said, “She went with them. They said they would protect her. She wants clues.”

  “Clues?” Tomas asked.

  “Like the elven cloak,” Moss pulled the sheet off and pointed to his hat.

  “Oh,” Tomas echoed. “Are you like them? The Sons of Barthus?”

  “No,” Moss answered. “I do not know them. But Nephis and Kugo are my friends.”

  “If they are protecting her, then she must be safe. She did seem very . . . important,” he tried to encourage Moss, “I don’t know this Kugo fellow, but if he’s anything like you or Miss Nephis, he must be kind indeed.”

  “Yes,” Moss echoed, “He must be. He was made to be . . .”

  As Moss said this, he gazed at the cloak with its fine stitching, made by the loom with good, purposeful hands. It seemed to him comforting and familiar, like an old friend. He held a great claw and gently pulled a thread, so that it might loop around him. Its weaves seemed to flow into him, like vines or roots, they must have been. And he held it all the tighter.

  “You know, Moss,” Tomas said, “If you would like it, you can keep it. I’d rather it help you out, as a ‘clue’, than go to them.”

  “You said it was valuable,” Moss protested, “It’s yours.”

  “I know. But if I keep it, it will sit in my cellar forever. Sure, it’s worth something, but not in Solca,” Tomas said with a grin, “If I want to make my fortune, I’d best make it myself and bring it all back home.”

  With a loud crash, the father burst into the room. “Catarina hasn’t seen your mother, are you sure she said Catarina?” he demanded.

  But then, like an omen, the mother returned, quietly floating into the room like a thief in the night. “Ilie, dearest; girls, would you step into the other room?” she asked in a small voice.

  “Madalina?” Ilie asked, “Where have you been?”

  “Please, dear, the other room,” she pleaded. And she grabbed her husband by the arm and began to pull him into the far room, “Come along now, girls,” she beckoned, and they followed.

  “Hello, Missus Madalina,” Tomas called, “It’s good to see you.”

  Madalina only looked at Tomas with pale, miserable eyes. She closed the door to the other room with a heavy thud.

  As the sound echoed through the room, the black cloaked cabalists rushed into the room, bearing knives, chains, and all manner of weapons. They did not waste a moment and rushed straight for Tomas. Moss threw the cloth off and swung at one of the Sons, who crashed into the wall and fell limp. He fought them off for a brief moment longer until he heard Tomas cry out in pain.

  “Agh!” he fell back, a deep gash cut in his cheek. Warm blood spilled onto his neck and clothes.

  Moss could not protect him. There were simply too many of them. And as he knew this, the Sons of Barthus closed in on Tomas. Moss burst forward, smashing through them and grabbed Tomas under one arm and ran. He crashed through the small entrance way of the home, leaving the door frame bowed out, cracked by his great form.

  Moss ran until he lost them and cowered in the winding streets of Solca. He could hear them, scurrying about in the street. If he stayed still, they would be found eventually. “What are we going to do?” Tomas asked.

  “I do not know,” he answered after a while.

  The side of the boy’s head was scarlet, and he was pale, though seemed no worse off for it. “Damn that Madalina, I never thought . . .”

  Moss reached out and held his face. The wound stitched up, and the stinging dulled into a warm memory.

  “How did you do that?” Tomas asked.

  “I do not know,” Moss said, “I do not know how I walk or move or shut wounds.”

  “Well, I suppose I don’t know how I walk either,” Tomas smirked, “So we’re on the same page in that regard.”

  And Moss felt a little better.

  “But really, what are we going to do?” Tomas groaned. “It’s not like we can run forever. And they’ll wisen up to what you can do sooner or later.”

  Moss was lost. Time seemed to be slipping from his fingers, and he knew so little. Tomas had already been hurt once. Might he be hurt worse this time? And what of Nephis? “Kugo is a good fighter,” Moss said aloud, “But I do not want them to break him.” The image of the drunkard’s arm being coiled flashed through his mind. “But Kugo is smart,” Moss finished his thoughts. “He has ideas.”

  “If you think so,” Tomas sighed, “Ideas never hurt anyone.”

  They stood beneath the window where Kugo slept, throwing pebbles from the road against the wooden shutters. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk, went the stones, each of them taking turns until they heard stirring from within. It took a moment, but eventually Kugo peered out the portal, wearing his mask and hastily thrown-on clothes. Moss beckoned him to come down, and Tomas motioned for him to be silent. Seeing Nephis was not among them, Kugo groaned and collected his things.

  Not wanting to be seen having left, Kugo barricaded the door and took only what he could carry. He left from the window, dropping into Moss’ arms. Without saying a word, they scurried away and found a place to hide for a while, a walkway that bent from the main path and led to a small, out-of-view shop and a cellar door. Moss explained as best he could all that had happened.

  Kugo sighed, rubbing his temple. “And what is your plan then?” he asked.

  Moss and Tomas were both silent.

  For a moment, Kugo considered just giving the Sons of Barthus the damn thing. It, as far as he could tell, was only a cloak and nothing more. If it kept the mad men off their backs, that’s all that mattered. But even he could tell that no good would come from giving them what they wanted. Whether or not the Valai Kei was real, they believed it was, and they acted on that.

  Kugo mulled over what could be done, and he looked up. They sat against the wall of the city, and only this home and the buildings on any side stood between them. “Alright, where are they holding Nephis?” he asked. And Moss explained how the hall bent to the right, and down from the office, there was a large parlor; Tomas attested he had seen this parlor many times and that it sat at the corner of the home, with each wall having windows. “We will meet back here in an hour,” Kugo explained, “I will collect my things and find out what I can about Nephis, and take her if possible. Regardless, we will get onto the roofs and leap onto the scaffolding of the wall, and then over the wall. They need to know that this relic isn’t in the town anymore.”

  “But what if they hurt Nephis?” Moss asked.

  “I don’t think they will,” Kugo assured him. “They were willing to speak with her before, and willing to leave you alone at her request. They know she is here on imperial business. At worst, they will use her as a bargaining chip.”

  Moss was still unsure, but agreed. And so Kugo disappeared down the streets of Solca. Tomas and Moss continued to skulk around the town, trying to find any hiding spot open to them. But after the first betrayal, Tomas was less sure on who could be trusted. “I don’t blame them,” he whispered to Moss, “They’re just looking out for themselves. And in a way, so am I, keeping this cloak from them. But that’s what I hate the most. They think they can come in here and take from us, just because they have a bit of steel and magic. I hate bullies,” he spat the words as quiet as he could, unconsciously scratching at the silver band strangling his arm.

  They waited for the long hour to pass. Though it was hard to know, Tomas was careful to watch the sun flitting between the clouds. The Sons of Barthus scurried up and down the streets, and at all times they could hear their shuffling and scratching, but never their speaking. When the time had come, Moss and Tomas crept back to that bystreet only to find it empty, aside from a tall ladder that had been pulled from somewhere else and set against the roofs and by the cellar door. They hid in the shadow, praying they would not be found. But then came a commotion, the sound of two dozen foot falls and the crashing of wood and clay.

  Nephis and Kugo spun around the corner in a frenzy, and the distant roar of footfalls followed after them. “Go!” Kugo commanded, “They’re planning something, they split up not long ago. Get up the ladder!”

  Nephis was the first to scramble up. “Eyes down,” she demanded.

  Next was Kugo, who helped to pull Tomas up to the top. But as Moss tried to step up, and their pursuers grew ever closer, their long shadows now piercing the exit, he placed his great foot on the rung, and it snapped beneath him like a twig. Kugo tisked.

  Without waiting a moment, Moss rushed to the door at the end of the street and slammed through it, it crumpled beneath his weight, its hinges torn from the wall. The residents of the home scrambled to their feet, but Moss was already running. The Sons of Barthus turned the corner like a great wave, and as they did, Kugo had pulled the ladder up. They flooded the small street and rushed to the hole Moss had left. The home was tight, with many small rooms and passages. Moss stampeded through, tearing shelves from the wall as he ran. The owner of the home, an elderly woman, cowered in the far room as he tramped through her house. Yet the stairway up was tighter still. Steep and narrow, Moss pressed himself through as his pursuers gushed into the home.

  He could hear them, their footfalls slamming through the halls, following after the rubble in his wake. With no time left, he looked around the small upper room, seeing a shuttered window at the far end. He ripped it open, slats of wood falling below. Between the city wall and the homes was a gap, perhaps five or ten feet wide, and nearly twenty feet deep. Moss reached up to the roof, and right as they were upon him, he pulled himself up and over.

  Nephis looked relieved seeing him, but no one was smiling. The scaffolding of the wall was a long jump from the uneven tiled roof. Kugo’s bag already lay at the far end, and he prepared to cross. He ran, the tiles clicking beneath his boots, and leapt to the landing with ease. The Sons of Barthus, who had not pursued Moss, were now making their way up the scaffolding and to a tower that lay only a couple of hundred feet away. Kugo began to secure a rope on the wooden palisade, tying it as tightly as he might. Nephis swallowed her fear and followed suit. She ran, and on the last bit of roof, threw herself forward. But it was not far enough, and she slid, only holding onto the walkway by her fingertips. Kugo abandoned the rope and pulled her up, and the two of them slid down to the other end. The footfalls grew ever louder as the Sons of Barthus had made it to the highest platform and ran like madmen towards the roofs. Worse still, the ones beneath them were plotting something, as they no longer were grasping for the roof.

  Tomas looked mortified. “I don’t think I can make it, Moss.” His face was pale and his eyes glassy at the far leap.

  Moss did not answer, he faltered for but a moment. But there was no time, their pursuers were almost upon them. Moss scooped Tomas beneath his arm and hurried for the ledge. Tiles cracked beneath his great feet, and he ran as hard as he might. But as he went to leap, Moss realized how heavy he truly was, that he was bound to the earth. He leapt with all his might, but the gap was too long and too deep. His claws scratched the platform, and he plummeted down the well and crashed on the dirt path. Both of them froze for a moment, the Sons of Barthus looked down at them, and wordlessly turned to pursue them once again. They could not waste a moment.

  Tomas and Moss ran aimlessly, desperate to find any path out. They stumbled back onto the same street they had just left. The Sons of Barthus behind them and before them, soon to pour from the home, Moss looked for any way out. There was only the cellar. Moss smashed the lock of the cellar door, and they fled down the steep stairs.

  It was as dark as night. They hoped for any tunnels or escape, but it was only a great box, a cage they had burrowed into. With nowhere to run, Tomas grabbed a plank of wood that lay on the far end, and they waited to make their defense.

  But the Sons of Barthus did not come down the stairs. They stood in great numbers before the doors, their long shadows mixing into the darkness, but they did not come down. And so Tomas and Moss held steady on either end of the stairwell. And there was silence.

  The waiting was the worst part. The blood pumped in Tomas’ head, rushing in dull metre, keeping count for what was to come. The only sound from without him was the rushing of steps at the top of the stairs as a greater and greater crowd grew. They teemed at the cellar door like dogs, patient and ever obedient. They were hemmed in. There was no way out.

  But then, their speaker’s voice broke the silence. “Bring the girl,” he said in a dull, dark voice.

  Then came down the stairs a crowd like the sea. The Son of Barthus restrained a young girl, with great blonde curls, who desperately clawed at the arm of the man, trying only to breathe, and against her belly was the iron wand.

  “Liliana!” Tomas yelped.

  “Give me the relic, and I shall let her go,” The speaker offered in his pallid tone. “Give us the relic and we shall go.”

  Moss was frozen. The speaker’s eyes fell upon him. The girl scratched and pulled and wriggled, and though the iron relic pressed into her stomach, it was as if he did not see her. His eyes were dead and dull, with little in them but desire. And Moss, for the first time in his life, felt disgust. But seeing the desperate light in Tomas’ eyes, he took the hat from his head and held out the relic. In an instant, it was snatched up from his claws, and the girl was dropped. Tomas ran to help her up. Without a word, the Sons of Barthus left.

  If anyone else had seen it, they would swear they were only passing monks or travelers. They made no fuss or commotion, only quietly proceeding through the streets and out the way they came. And Solca was quiet. And there was only the squawking of the birds.

  Moss lumbered up the stairs, his gaze sunk to the ground, and his shoulders slumped. He felt cold. He sat on the side of the road as Tomas fumed over his betrothed and watched as the shadows of the town grew long and deep. Eventually, Nephis and Kugo returned to the town, having seen the procession heading out, their hair and clothes flit with sticks and leaves. They sat by him for a while.

  The night came and left. Nephis and Kugo tried to cheer up Moss, to tell him that he had done all he could, that sometimes there was little you can do. But it didn’t really help. They collected their things in the early of the morning, and sat for a hearty breakfast before leaving, as the next trek would be a long one. The town of Solca was quiet, the people picked up the pieces of their village, but the toll of the past couple of days was clear. And the skies were grey, and the clouds low.

  Yet as they were about to leave, who should push through the tavern doors but Tomas. Once he saw the trio, he made a beeline for their table.

  “I’m glad I caught you before you left,” he said to Moss, “I wanted to thank you.”

  “But they took your cloak,” he said with a heavy heart.

  Tomas sighed. “Right, they did. But you did save my Liliana all the same, and you helped me when I asked you. I owe you a lot for that.”

  Moss twiddled his fingers, and his gaze fell to the table.

  “It didn’t go right,” Tomas admitted, “But in the end I actually think I’ve come out better for it. If Liliana wasn’t going to wait for me before, well, after yesterday I think she’d hope twenty years for me,” he said with a sly grin. “And I’ve got you to thank for it. So don’t be so glum, you haven’t lost much, and I’ve got the world ahead of me.” Tomas smacked Moss on his great shoulder. “So, Moss, what are you going to do?”

  After hearing Tomas’ kind words, Moss felt a little warmer. “We’re going to the coast,” he slowly answered.

  “The coast?” Tomas asked in surprise, “Aren’t you from the capital?”

  “Yes, all the way to Remare,” Nephis piped in, “I have business there.”

  “What are you going to do?” Moss asked.

  “I’d best start training! If I’m still as I am in a year, I’ll probably end up pulp,” he said, “The next time I see this village, I’ll be a man. Suppose I should make sure I’m actually one by then.” But if he had known the blood and flame that lay sleeping in the future, he might not have left the little town of Solca. “I’d best let you go, there’s not much around here but woods and road.”

  And they said their goodbyes to Tomas and the small trading village.

  They walked for many days through many towns with little else of interest. And the pain and struggle of Solca left their hearts, though not their memory. The days on the road were full of peace and quiet until they smelled the salty air drifting from over the hills. The last and greatest spot on their journey before they were to return to the White Palace.