Tarea Stanbrook let the pipe smoke slip past her lips and dissipate in the evening’s cool rain, satisfied with the familiar feeling it gave her. The ache in her neck from her day at the range was proof enough that she had earned the feeling at long last.

  Her friends at the forge typically put in a longer day than she did. And so she had been waiting the better part of an hour in various poses leaning against this river stone wall, sheltered from the rain under a thatched awning in an alleyway near the city’s center, in an attempt to catch them unaware.

  She perked up when she heard the familiar voice of Stefford Hopmead offering his apologies as he backed into the street. She laughed to herself, knowing that if Stefford was apologizing, Trav wouldn’t be far behind.

  Trav was the talented, albeit impatient, high smith or something or other in the service of King Alderich's armory. Stefford was his former apprentice and current understudy, whose twenty some odd years had not yet found a way to make him wiser.

  Tarea snuffed her pipe with her thumb, then cleared it with a few quick taps against the river stone wall and slipped it back into its pouch on her hip. She pushed herself off the wall and stretched a little.

  Stepping quietly out onto the broader street, she stalked the two whose leather work-boots slicked against the wet cobbles as they made their nightly path uphill toward Cider House. It was the finest bar and drink hall in all of Benrakos, the entire Midlands for that matter. Stefford's mother owned the establishment, so when they were together they ate and drank a fair coin cheaper than anywhere else in the city.

  To her delight, he two men hadn't noticed her quickening pace behind them. It wasn’t even like she was trying to be quiet, either. She supposed their ears were dull from the full day of incessant hammering at the forge. How they could stand it, she had no idea.

  An archer like her relied not only on keen sight to meet their mark, but hearing as well. A sharp and observant ear could save one’s life, either from noticing an approaching enemy, like herself, or through the subtle art of listening for game. The slightest sound of a rustle or snap, and the dance of choices you made as you knocked your arrow could mean a full belly at a time you would otherwise starve, or a blade at your throat when all you have is a bow.

  She jostled the thought away. None of that mattered now. She had the upper hand, and her prey was less than an arm's length away when she lunged.

  She wrapped her forearm around Stefford's throat and pulled him back as he stepped forward. His right foot went high in the air as she convinced his balance to betray him. She walked him back as he made his protest clear. When she let him go, it came with a push that left him stumbling forward in the street.

  Trav clapped his hands slow and steady, laughing heartily as Stefford fought to find his footing.

  "That was unnecessary!" Stefford said when he caught his breath. He righted himself with a groan as he turned back to them.

  "I think it might be entirely necessary." Trav said.

  "But every night?"

  "Every night until you're ready for it." Trav tried to spin Tarea's little prank to seem like well intentioned training, but his laughter betrayed the notion.

  A smile on Trav's face was hard to find, but she managed it occasionally, and more likely than not at Stefford's expense.

  Stefford huffed. "If this is how you're going to be without a drink, I think I'll spend the evening elsewhere. I would hate to see what you become after one."

  "Whoever accused me of not yet having a drink?" Tarea shot back.

  Stefford just shook his head, already turning and heading any direction but theirs.

  Trav's laughter turned into a long sigh as he clapped her on the shoulder. "I'd give him an hour to blow off that steam and he'll be back. But maybe, just maybe, we take it slow tonight?"

  "Did your discount at Cider House dry up or something?"

  "Not yet, but…"

  "Then we aren't worrying tonight, are we?" she asked, and was already speaking before he had the chance at an answer. "Besides, you always take it slow. Right until you don't. In fact, I think defines your entire existence."

  "That is entirely fair. But let's try to stay in Chella's good graces tonight." Trav raised his palms, and it looked to her like an attempt at an apology, or maybe a silly attempt at de-escalation.

  He was right, though. It was too early to start getting mean, and she was feeling a touch of regret for having pissed off Stefford. "Best behavior, I promise." Tarea kissed two fingers, touched them to her heart, then smirked.

  ***

  As they approached Cider House, it was clear that tomorrow's feast day had brought with it many traveler and countryfolk, revelers and wide-eyed tourists alike. Despite their many differences, Trav knew they came here to push their coin in Chella Hopmead's direction and bask in the legend of the most famous bar in Benrakos. To those travelers, the thought of returning home without the brag of visiting Cider House would be unthinkable. Trav laughed to himself at the absurdity of the thought. He was here most nights.

  Chella Hopmead, the sole proprietor of Cider House, had looked after Trav when he had arrived in these lands as a young man, some twenty years ago. In return, or perhaps as an offering of loyalty, Trav had helped her son Stefford find a role as an apprentice at King Alderich's High Forge once he came of working age. So Trav always felt welcome at Cider House, and Chella always took care of him and his guests. He just worried that it wouldn't always stay that way, especially with this particular company.

  "Grab a table. I've got our drinks tonight." Trav offered, nodding toward one of the outer tables that had a few seats open. Which was probably the best they could manage during the evening's rush. "Just don't go offering anyone else free drinks and we should be alright." For Trav, the drinks were free or cheap, and for Chella a night like tonight would rake in a profit that she didn't mind him having a few on the house. Still, he avoided abusing that privilege as best he could and usually paid more than was asked on any resulting ledger.

  When he returned, Tarea was already knee-deep in a story he had heard a hundred times before, this time told to a table of eager listeners of mixed company, all strangers to him.

  "Just wait until she tells you what she finds in that meat pie!" he interrupted her, to uproarious laughter and applause.

  He had ruined her punchline, but she just smiled back at him, shaking her head. He handed her an ale, then motioned that he was going to find another table, perhaps a little farther from the raucousness of the crowd.

  He found a small table for two, covered in the tankards and goblets of whoever had just left.

  He took a long sip of the frothy ale in his hand and looked out into the dappled and pooling firelight of the torches and cook fires in the streets, satisfied with the cool night air on the outskirts of the celebration. The skies showed every indication that it would rain again, but he was thankful for this momentary break from it.

  The day at the forge had been difficult enough as it was with the hammers and the bickering over quality. Most of the day's work was simple enough. It was managing the other smiths' various gripes that grated on him the most. The job didn't really attract the polite type, and the constant heat kept all but the overly serious away. So, in that moment he was glad for the cold air on his face and to finally be alone with his thoughts.

  "Hello, friend." A man with a subtle eastern accent said as he sat down in the chair next to Trav.

  "I don't think I know you, friend." Trav said without as much as looking at this newcomer, then slugged back the rest of his ale. The large wooden mug in his hand fell back to the table, rattling the empties.

  "Perhaps we can change that. Let me get the next round. What are we drinking tonight?"

  "Whatever you're buying is fine by me." Trav said. He might be drinking on the cheap tonight, but knew to get Chella heavier coin when he could. Tonight she would get this man's money for the drink. It was the least he could do.

  "Then come. I saw a table opening up inside. And besides, it's quite cold out here." The man held his hand out.

  Accepting it, Trav pulled himself clumsily from the old wooden seat. It was only then that he saw the man's face in the dancing golden light from the firepit and brazier nearest. He was a fleck haired, blue eyed man of perhaps forty-five years of age with a lucky scar across his brow to his cheek that avoided his left eye. He wore dark, if not black, clothes of modest refinement.

  "Just don't get the dinner ale." Trav said, steadying himself on the back of his chair. He saw the man look back at him quizzically and returned only a shake of his head and the dismissive wave of his hand.

  He didn't want to say aloud what he knew about that ale. That it was made from the remaining half-glasses and collected table spillage of the patrons before. It was a drink for the desperate who knew of its foul scrapings, or more likely the na?ve newcomer who found its complexities quite profound, especially for such a bargain.

  The man returned with two imperial black ales, which Trav knew to be the strongest drink served in a tankard.

  "You trying to get me drunk?"

  "You've done most of that work yourself already. No, friend. I am a man who loves to hear a rumor, and you look like a man who has stories. That is all. What is your name?"

  "Trav."

  "Just… Trav?"

  "Yeah. I haven't really needed more than that, honestly. What might your name be, traveler?" Trav said as he wobbled the full wooden tankard of ale toward his face, then took a hefty glug which left him feeling the spill rolling down the sides of his chin. He wiped it away on the forearm of his tunic, which beyond concern to him, as dirty as it already was.

  "My name is Estin Gandt. I came to Benrakos in search of rumors. Perhaps on a path toward learning the truths within them."

  "Truth is always worth pursuing. But it surprises me that you would seek truth in rumors."

  "Pieces of it, maybe. I can usually find the shape of truth with enough of those pieces."

  "Well, you are in luck. Cider House is one of the best places in all of Benrakos for rumors."

  "So they say." The man grinned.

  "And you thought to ply them out of me with drink?"

  "I must admit that you have me figured out. Shall I get another round?"

  "I will play your game, Efgrin Scamp." Trav said as he leaned forward, pushing his finger into the table. He found himself falling into the lean and righted himself with a little push further.

  "The name is Estin Gandt. But, no matter. Let me get us another." He almost laughed as he said it.

  When Estin returned with the next round, Trav hardly noticed. He could barely keep his eyes open. Despite the early hour, the night and the drink were already getting the best of him.

  "Tell me a story." Estin said, pushing the frothy ale across the table toward Trav.

  "Alright. But to tell the truth, I try not to make other people's affairs my concern."

  "Surely, you've heard something interesting lately. Tensions as they are. Perhaps you have heard whispers of a rising opposition to the crown."

  "I don't know about all that." Trav waved the suggestion from the air as if it were a horsefly. "If you must know, people are doing alright here. There's safety. There's peace. And I have hammered enough detail across our vast stores of our weaponry that the peace feels entirely real. Benrakos isn't looking for a fight, and if one were to come, well…"

  "Well what?"

  "We have already made every preparation."

  "You consider filigree and the finery of your appointments as preparation for what is to come?"

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "You see," Estin said as he leaned in, "I happen to know a few rumors myself."

  "Anything juicy?" Trav asked, then took a sip of his ale.

  "Perhaps. Though I thought you didn't concern yourself with other people's affairs."

  "But now you've piqued my interest."

  "And you did say you would play my game."

  "So I did."

  Estin nodded slowly before speaking. "Ordinarily my services, my game if you will, would require a fee."

  Trav quietly lowered his mug back from his face to the table. He leaned back, setting his palms on his thighs and tilted his head to the right, then again to the left, cracking away the stiffness his neck.

  But something still felt wrong. It was a nagging feeling, almost like an itch he couldn't find a way to scratch.

  "Let's say that tonight I am feeling generous. And my fee will be as simple as a rumor. Just one rumor from you. It can be as deep and true or as shallow and false as you like. Just know that I will ply my trade and sell your rumor if I find it proves its weight in coin. I reserve the right to do so from the very moment the words leave your lips. But kindly trust that the source of that rumor will never be divulged. In exchange, I will give you three rumors of my own. More than a fair offer."

  And despite not knowing what it was he needed to scratch; scratch he would, all the same. "And if I tell you the truth, then you lie to me three times for it?"

  "Well, that's the fun of rumors. Their validity can never be known for certain. Their worth is simply the value you can take from them." Estin said, sliding his mug of ale around in little circles, pushing around the puddle on the table beneath it.

  Trav grumbled, then laughed to himself a little as he looked around the room. He considered the sordid tales he knew about the people surrounding him. He considered the truth alongside the speculation, then chose one rumor he felt weighed more innocently on the scale.

  "See the guard over there?" Trav gestured to a table across the room to a gate guard named Jeplin Hame, who was entertaining a laughing widower. Jep preferred the older ladies, and Trav was about to say as much before Estin held up his hand.

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  Estin leaned toward him with a clever curl to his lip and quietly asked, "Is this man a friend?"

  "Of course he is." Trav matched his hushed tone in delicious mockery. He grasped his ale mug, then leaned back into his chair, glugging hard as the heady foam wet the underside of his nose.

  "Then it's likely he wouldn't appreciate you spreading rumors about him, would he?"

  "No, probably not." The mug came back down a little clumsily, sloshing a fair amount of his remaining drink onto the table.

  "You need to think about your rumor as a little dagger in the dark. It may be misheard or misconstrued; but every time it is repeated, wrong or not, a new dagger is crafted. And these daggers will serve your purpose. If you give them time and enough encouragement these daggers can completely shred apart a reputation. And I would hope you wouldn't set a single one on someone you still want to call friend. I hope my words will save you from that particular embarrassment."

  "Daggers in the dark…" Trav pondered aloud. It was a curious thought, at least.

  "Oh yes. I'll give you the time to let your wheels turn. Time enough to bring me your own little dagger."

  Trav looked around the room again, but quickly realized that Cider House was the wrong place to look. His mind swam elsewhere, but not so far beyond the doors of this establishment, but to the courtyard and the houses beyond.

  "The resignations. Not just the resignations, but those moving away from here."

  "Sorry?"

  Trav sighed. "The last year, maybe even two now, we've had a few scattered and unexplained resignations in the ranks. High rank or low, lifelong appointment or not, it doesn't seem to matter. Many of them have left Benrakos altogether. And fair enough to them who want to live the civilian life, the chance to earn some coin of your own. I will admit that I too dream of the day I can afford to do the same. Move to the countryside, maybe buy some farmland that overlooks the sea."

  "That does sound nice, doesn't it? And I am sure that service to king and country can sometimes feel like a tedious chore when you start making those kinds of comparisons." Estin's grin widened. "But a rumor of defections in the ranks, well… you have chosen a hefty dagger, my friend."

  "I didn't say defections."

  "You didn't have to."

  Trav licked his teeth as he made quick glances across the room, judging the attention of the off-duty guards, then locked eyes with Estin as he leaned in. "Well?"

  "Well, it seems like I owe you three for that one."

  "You certainly do." Trav leaned back, exhaling slow in an attempt to quiet the pounding in his chest. He was mad at himself for falling into the trap. The decisions that had led him here were bad ones. He took another deep drink of his ale and let his mind swim within it for a moment, knowing that his next decisions would likely need to be worse.

  "Here's one." Estin smiled as he held his finger up. "The old guard, the very defenders of this once great and honorable city have been walking away, and not one of them really wants to say why."

  "You can't use that one. I just told it to you." Trav felt the swell of warmth as the redness in his face deepened.

  "Like I said; if indeed those words ever left your lips, then they are mine to ply my trade with. But I don't know who told me that one. You already know that I never divulge my sources. And you made the deal, remember?" Trav shook his head in disbelief. "You confounding cheat." He said. A rage grew within him, and he noticed his body start to heave a little. To anyone else it must have looked like he was trying to stifle a deep laugh through his clenched teeth.

  "I am no cheat. But I will admit I made the rules to this game, and I know how to play it. But don't worry. You gave me the one you promised and I still owe you two."

  Trav tilted his mug all the way back, then brought it back down hard enough that it caught the attention of the surrounding patrons. "Have at it, then."

  "Do you need another? Here, I'll get…"

  "No. Tell me the second rumor."

  "Good, good… yes, of course. My second rumor is that your scared and feeble king likes to hide his bastards in his ranks."

  Trav realized he was already standing, no, stumbling back. He knocked his chair to the ground as he sought to gain better balance.

  Through the blear in his eyes, he could see Estin sitting and laughing smugly, swirling his mug in the air in little circles before finishing the rest of it off in one go.

  Trav took two paces toward him, then lifted him by the cloth of his tunic, twisting it to tighten around his throat. The action elicited a clamor from what he now realized was a gathering audience.

  He pulled Estin up to stand, jerking him forward to close the distance between them. Then again, to bring the man's ear closer. "The third." He demanded with what he meant to be a whisper, but could feel the growl in his throat in its place.

  Trav let his grip loosen and Estin pulled back, adjusting the neckline of his tunic, then brushed the wrinkles of his clothes out as he cautiously stepped away.

  "I think you might like the third rumor the best." Estin said, then leaned back toward him so the interested onlookers couldn't hear his words. "Your name isn't Trav, is it?" He paused, letting the question hang, and Trav could feel Estin's eyes knowingly reading his own. "I've found the king's bastard, haven't I? His heathen western name is Torik Andorin. Is it not?"

  Trav felt the tension he was holding give way, if only just a little. He grinned stupidly wide, lips stretched taut over his still clenched teeth. He stood a little taller then, letting his arms relax to his sides.

  His eyes were locked with Estin's. And if there was anyone in the room, he had become entirely blind to them.

  Trav chose his words carefully and slurred them calmly. "Sorry, friend. I don't know the name. It's been an interesting conversation, though. And I thank you for the drinks. Now if you don't mind, I've other…" Trav words were stifled as he noticed the flick of a blade from Estin's sleeve as the man lunged toward him.

  ***

  Chella Hopmead left her station at the bar and dipped back into the taproom to check the barrels. It was still early, but with the light staff; many of whom were no doubt feigning illness but taking their party across town, as well as the barrels already emptying; she had her work cut out for her this evening.

  She heard a clamor from bar room and she hurried back out, nearly slipping on the ale-slick floorboards only to see the crowd forming tightly around some manner of violent chaos, slivers of movement visible between the onlookers.

  She pushed her way through them to find Trav with his back on the floor, pushing back against the arm of a man she didn't recognize who brandished a rather sinister little blade and was currently pressing the tip of it down toward Trav's throat.

  Trav reached out with one arm toward her feet as he fought it. No, she thought, not toward her, rather to the wooden mug he saw there on the floor before her. She booted it toward him, and his hand fumbled for it for a moment before he found his grip on the handle. No sooner, the mug was cracking across the man's face. Trav followed the motion into a quick roll and kneed the man in the stomach.

  The man doubled into himself as he slid to a stop on the floor. He still held his blade and shook it viciously, controlled or not, up at Trav.

  Trav stood, strafing his paces around the man on the floor. He shook out his arms and cracked his neck to the side.

  Chella took the momentary interlude to take stock of the crowd. They were cheering now, which was never good. Usually, the louder a brawl got, the more potential it had to encourage the fighters to finish the fight rather than walk away. Worse yet, the rowdiness of the crowd could easily spill over into other fights.

  And all of this meant damage.

  She would let them do as much damage to each other as they wanted, as long as it meant the fight was over soon. Even some minor damage to her property she could easily let go.

  It was the damage to her reputation she feared the most. For the moment this spectacle was the evening's entertainment, but if it spilled over into something bigger, word could get out and patrons might find somewhere safer to spend their coin.

  She watched as the man got himself into a crouching stand, still training his blade on Trav.

  Trav saw his moment and swiped his mug outward, knocking the man's blade from his white knuckled grasp and away onto the floor just before he head butted him squarely on the bridge of his nose.

  The man stumbled back as dark blood poured across his mouth and down his neck. He dazedly tried to wipe it away with the back of his hand but only further smeared the red across his paling complexion.

  He rushed low at Trav, catching him in the stomach with his shoulder and forcing him back into the crowd and it reeled back and Trav's back met one of Cider House's support beams, which shook the ceiling hard enough that the plaster ceiling above cracked, raining powdery dust down on them.

  Trav pushed hard back against the beam and used the new leverage to shove the man back just far enough to catch the strike from his mug hard across the jaw.

  The blow sent teeth and blood from the man's mouth, and someone in the path of the spray screamed.

  "Enough!" Chella shouted, but no one seemed to notice.

  Trav hit the wobbling man in the face with a left hook, followed by another bash of the mug from his right.

  The man fell back, and Trav caught him by his blood-soaked tunic and continued the assault with the mug. He lifted it high and brought it down onto his face which was becoming less recognizable on each subsequent blow.

  He stood up, and the crowd shuffled back as he started kicking the man repeatedly.

  She had to do something. This had to stop, and it had to stop now.

  She caught the attention of the closest guard, Jeplin Hame, who had been watching wide-eyed as the events continued to unfold. She motioned for him to do something, anything he could to stop the fight.

  He ducked from her sight, and soon a wooden chair rose high above the heads of the horrified onlookers.

  Jeplin stepped out through the crowd with it, and without a second thought, swung it down onto Trav, who turned up to try to block it, but it hit with enough force that the chair broke into pieces and he collapsed on the floor.

  A contingent of guards came forcing their way through the crowd, who were busy taking their turns leaning in to witness the pile of carnage on the floor for themselves.

  One of the guards dropped to his knees next to Trav and rolled him over so he was flat on his back. He took off his helmet and set it aside before he came close to listen for his breath, checking his throat for a heartbeat as he did. When he found it, he waved to some guards, and they came to drag Trav away.

  Chella watched as the guard moved to the next body, this bludgeoned man whose face had been partially but nonetheless horrifically reconfigured. He performed the same checks on him, but shook his head at another pair of guards. They covered the body with an old green tablecloth, now wetting through and dark with blood as they carried the man's body out by the arms and legs.

  A barman was quickly on the floor with his sloshing bucket of water and soap, making quick work of the reddened floorboards with some rags and a hand brush.

  The commotion of the crowd from just moments before had been reduced to grumbles. Some were already heading for the doors.

  "Next round is on the house!" Chella belted out, and the crowd erupted in cheers. Many of those leaving hastened their path back towards the bar. She hoped to stay in the public's good graces, and that the evening's tragedies be smoothed over as quickly as she could manage. She couldn't let their coin walk out with them after all, even if it meant she had to pay for this round out of her own pocket.

  "You step away for five minutes," a familiar voice complained, "and you miss all the fun." She turned to see it was Tarea Stanbrook approaching.

  Tarea sighed as she surveyed the bloody mess on the floor. "I tried to warn him..."

  ***

  Chella woke the next morning to the shuffling and mumbling of guards at her door. She could hear them debating what to say, and how hard to knock. She was out of bed and listening at the door before they even had a chance to agree on their approach.

  She quietly opened the door and watched them for a moment before asking, "Something I can help you with?"

  "Oh," Gate guard Vint Harpin stumbled as he turned toward her, the previous night's festivities no doubt still having an effect on him. She wondered if he had even slept. "Chella, I do apologize for the early rouse."

  "No problem at all. It's good to see you, Vint. Who's your friend?" She nodded toward the other guard, the one with the fresh face and nervous smile.

  "That's Dack. She's filling in for the lack of guards this fine morning. She's good with horses and would make a great stable hand if you ever need another one."

  "Dacona Belnapp, ma'am. Good to meet you."

  "You as well." Chella smiled and shook her hand before looking back to Vint with a touch less of her charm. "Is this about last night?"

  "It is."

  "Come on in. I'll make us some tea." Chella offered them an open door, but the guards didn't budge.

  Vint shrugged a little. It might have been an apology. "Unfortunately, we have to ask that you come with us."

  "Sure. Just a moment." She said, closing the door behind her, gathering her boots and readying herself as best she could in the few moments she allowed herself. Whatever this was, she was already eager to be done with it.

  She checked that her daughter Mitna was still tucked warmly in her blankets and would likely be there for a few more hours before the city's morning bustle would wake her, but she hoped to return before that eventuality.

  She followed the guards the short walk uphill to the sprawling courtyard at the city center where farmers and merchants were busy stocking their carts and storefronts in the early dawn light. Past them, the castle walls loomed high above.

  The castle guard waved them through and soon she was in the warm embrace of the braziers and being led down tapestried halls, past curious scribes and respectful attendants, then up wide stone stairs. Another pair of castle guards in sleek armor stood guarding a rather large oak door.

  She looked to Vint with a mild unease that she was sure he could read plainly on her face.

  "Let's sit," he motioned her over to a long bench that stretched between two doorways along the hall. "It might be a while before His Highness can see you."

  "You brought me here to speak with King Alderich himself?" She asked quietly.

  "He has some questions, is all." He shrugged as he said it. She could tell he was trying to reassure her. But she was being brought before the king, and that wasn't reassuring in the least.

  Several moments passed, and the guards were pulling the double doors open. Vint led her inside before departing.

  She had hardly a moment to take in the splendor of his quarters before her eyes met King Alderich's. He was seated behind a large, ornate table inlaid with gemstones, metal and glass that depicted Sevoran, their city's storied protector with crimson wings stretched wide. He sat in a similarly adorned chair. It wasn't his throne, but with this resplendent decor it nearly outshined the formal seat of the Midlands.

  "Chella, it has been far too long since we last spoke." Alderich said, his words were kind but had a tired edge to them. His face looked sunken. If there were any welcoming expressions being imparted there, they were hard to read behind his tired eyes.

  "Indeed, it has. It is good to see you, Benetor."

  He nearly cracked a smile. "You have no idea how long it's been since I've heard my own first name. Probably since the last time we had the pleasure of speaking. All this formality, it may seem respectful to most, but it has become such a burden. I would just as soon do away with all of it if I could."

  "It's clear to me that something's weighing on your mind. My own presence here leads me to believe it is about the events last night at Cider House."

  "You aren't wrong." He sighed, and some dark pain seemed to wash over him. "There are very few whose confidence I can rely on, and with most I fear that trust has already been broken. Not with you, of course. I hope I can confide in you once more."

  "You have my word and always have."

  He leaned toward her and whispered his next words beneath the scrutiny of the guards just beyond the door. "There has been a break in my ranks, a slow and quiet defection. My own advisors have taken to calling me paranoid behind my back. For a while I trusted them…" He turned away from her as his hand came to his face to wipe away the tears. "Excuse me."

  "No, it's alright. Take the time you need."

  "For years I have felt my power over the Midlands slipping away. At first, it seemed like a natural phenomenon. Like some function of my agency, or perhaps even the long-standing peace we have built here. But recent events have changed my mind." He sat in thought for a moment, staying his tears once again. "All along, I knew that no matter what happened that the Alderich line to the throne was secure. That my son Brend, despite his faults and dalliances, would rise in my passing and carry the Midlands. In his own way, of course. His iron grip would soften, and I think the people would have grown to love him in time."

  "You doubt his ability to rise to that occasion?"

  "I have never doubted his ability to do so." He said, and she felt his words tip toward a sudden anger. "But Brend is dead and my line is gone." He pounded the table once and hard. The words washed over her like ice.

  "What?" she asked in disbelief, her arms crossed to guard her heart from the spreading cold.

  "Brend and his entire escort were found murdered along the passage east by a lone surviving scout. These assassins took Brend's head as a trophy."

  "I… I am so sorry." She said, and he acknowledged her with a withering nod, tears welling in his eyes.

  "They left the remaining carnage there on the border between the Midlands and the lands ruled by the Eastern Council, no doubt as a threat. All of this was meant as a provocation, I am sure. Brend had been investigating the rumors of an amassing legion near the borderlands. So you can imagine my concern when I heard that the one we call Trav had murdered an emissary from the east."

  "Unfortunately, it's not beyond him to get in a tussle here or there. To think him capable of murder, though. And how is he? Is he alright?"

  "Not in the least. But his immediate injuries have been tended to."

  "Can I see him?"

  "No."

  "Where is he?"

  "The answer won't surprise you."

  "The Darkened Keep…" she said, and shuddered at the thought. Most whose misfortune found them in the Darkened Keep would never find anything else ever again but pain.

  "Please understand that whatever happened last night, this is the way it is to be. Even if this man was a spy or provocateur, my hands are now tied. In the eyes of anyone watching, Trav didn't kill a spy. He killed an emissary. Appearances being what they are, I have to show him brought to justice, or I fear we face war with the East."

  "What led you to think this man was a spy?"

  "I have come to find he had been prying into the city's affairs, unbeknownst to me or my closest advisors for weeks. He had weaseled his way in and made his way to my own son. His target was deliberate. This incitement was aimed at me."

  "Hardly anyone outside this room knows Trav is your son."

  "And still these unseen forces have found their way to seek him out. They want me to know that they know my secrets. They want me to know they are closing in."

  "Who would do this?"

  "I don't know. All appearances would lead me to believe that the Eastern Council has finally turned against us and sent this man to spy under the guise of diplomacy. I am not sure I entirely trust that notion, and yet it has all been made to seem so obvious. Either way, I have few options left." He said, and she could feel for herself the paranoia racking his mind.

  "If there is anything…" she started, but he stopped her with the raise of his hand. His quaking fingers showed his frailty in a way she hadn't considered before.

  "I called you here because there is something you can help with. I need you to find people you trust. People who Trav trusts. A small group, maybe four or five. I'll send a guard to collect them from you at your home later this afternoon. Tell them nothing, only that it is important they see me. Speak a word of this to no one, not even my guards."

  "And what would you ask of these people?"

  "Please understand my need to hold these plans tightly. And rest assured that you will come to know in time."

  "I see. And it has to be people he actually trusts, you said?"

  "Only ones he can trust with his life. Without question." He said with grave certainty.

  And unfortunately for them, she already knew the friends he trusted the most.

  The story continues in

  The Peace at Knife's Edge

  and

  The War at Night's End

  Available now on Amazon and Audible