The Tent

Thunder boomed overhead and the flickering of high lightning was incessant. The patter of rain on the tent was dampened by the ward Rosalyn had conducted, but the humid air still dampened everything. Anya frowned at her plate of fried fish. It smelled delicious, but the dim lamplight made clear that the dampness saturated anything. The army’s camp had welcomed them readily, but they had learned sadly that Argen had gone missing after their last engagement. She lay back on her bedroll comfortably, twining her fingers in the soft wool fringe of her blankets. He could not have gotten far.

The Cave

The cave was dry and cool, a relief from the dry heat outside. The light just barely stretched to the rear, where it revealed a small pool of cool, clear water. Argen refilled his waterskin and washed his face of dust. He stripped off his clothes and retrieved fresh clothes from his pack. Washing quickly with harsh soap, he re-dressed; chewing sweet, salty dried beef while he laundered. This place was better than most for spending a night. How long had he been on the run? Where were Anya and Rosalyn? He hoped they were faring better than he was.

The Healing Ward

Blood ran down her face from her burned scalp, staining singed cloak and grey dress alike. Smoldering, unrecognizable remains interspersed with shattered wood and stumps littered the scorched clearing. Anya wavered afoot, in better shape than Rosalyn. Smoke, ash and death surrounded them. Rosalyn momentarily cursed her abilities. She had a knack for wards, healing and negating that led her to the Path of Temperance. She knew how to kill, if not utterly destroy like Anya. Conducting painfully, she set to creating a healing ward. Anya would benefit from it as much as she once out of her dreamlike trance.

The Field

The sun was bright, but provided little warmth. This far north, the snow became ice as soon as it hit the ground. The chill killed scent, dampened sound. Even wrapped in all of their cloaks and coats, they would have frozen to death in hours without the protective field they were taking turns conducting. It was useful for keeping rain off, and it could control the temperature moderately. It was still cold inside, but not deadly so. Behind, they left a swath of melted, refrozen snow. It made them easy to track, but anyone after them would know their destination.

The Range

She was alive, more alive than she had ever felt. Anger, love, loss, and pleasure all surged within filling her completely; muscles flexed, nerves tingling. Even wrapped in the stillness, the barrier between her and the inferno of emotion, she was nearly consumed by passion. Sweat poured down her face, soaking her white Anointed’s dress. Ahead of her, she marked the painted targets out to five-hundred spans. She conducted her inner tempest at the first. As if by a giant invisible grinder, it was ripped apart. She smelled the sawdust from this range. Pleasure pounded within; she destroyed the rest.

The Gathered

A small room had been set aside for them, furnished in utilitarian fashion, with four well made chairs, a table, and a desk containing writing supplies. The walls were tiled ivory, but an enchantment laid long past attuned the interspersed colors to the Cavaliers within; Passion, Solace and Temperance were called forth. A mild scent of scrubbing powder indicated the room had been recently cleaned. Anya sat opposite Rosalyn; Argen opposite Steven. Anya, Argen and Rosalyn wore the white garb of the Anointed, accented with red, blue and green, respectively.

Steven wore his formal blues, “We are together at last.”

The Master and Apprentice

Shadows danced in the firelight as the acrid smell of smoke crept from burning green wood. Steven whittled quietly upwind of the fire, shaping a dry piece of wood he pulled from his pack. Argen lounged on his bedroll, avoiding the smoke. He had a full stomach and though tired, he felt vitalized. Not since Uncle Din’s death had he felt so safe. Steven, aside from showing him how to control the rift, was a kind, gentle instructor; harsh at times, with high expectations, but fair and just. Uncle Din had been a good teacher; Steven was an excellent master.

The Path of Passion

The hall narrowed at the end, leading to the break from the Hall of Solace. The mosaic tiles of the hall gave to bold colored runs leading to Cavalier’s personal quarters. Deep crimson forked left, down the Path of Passion. To the right of crimson, violet forged the Path of Ardor. In the center, azure flowed the Path of Solace. To the right of center, emerald wound the Path of Temperance. On the right, opposite the left, gold rose the Path of Light. Few Cavaliers walked the Paths of Light or Passion, dangerous as they were, but Anya strode forward.

The Intersections

He was lost. Trudging through the woods in the blind night for hours, he had emerged into an intersection of several deer runs. The dawn was filtering through the trees, shedding verdant light which mingled with the cool fog of the morning. The scent of mossy undergrowth filtered up his nose as he chewed a strip of rough jerky to breakfast. Considering the paths momentarily, he chose the westbound one which looked the least overgrown. So long as he kept in one direction, he would make it out of this wood eventually. The only question was where he would emerge.

The Festival of Lights

Anya walked the street in a dress she would have never before considered. Simple white wool with an embroidered golden helix on the breast; stout, a bit warm for summer, but comfortable nonetheless. The sharp cracks and acrid scent of small fireworks filled the streets. Lamps and candles shone out of homes; not even the poorest would let their houses go unlit during the festival of lights. It was a middle class neighborhood. Children played, adults drank and sang. It was a good night. The sense of dread that had been building in the east was momentarily warded by the festivities.

The Ward

The soft, wool stuffed mattress was like a cloud, with three down pillows. The Cavalier who attended him wore a gold tabard, and seemed to radiate serenity. ‘Probably why he makes a good healer’, thought Argen. The small four bed ward’s walls were polished white stone, shot through with veins of differing earthtones. A tray of hot, spicy soup was atop the nightstand next to his bed. The clock ticking on the warm mantle was archaic, a monument to the craftsman’s skill. On his back, Argen stared at the multicolored mosaic ceiling. He wondered how long his recovery would take.

The Waterfall

Misting onto her forehead, the water was cool and refreshing. Under the rock outcrop over which the water flowed, the spray enveloped her. She doused herself from the falling stream, scrubbing hair and body to clean the dust and grime of travel. The herbal soap mixed with the scent of the mist. Seated on a warm rock, she shook her pale skin dry, and set to the arduous taming of her curls. Packing after dressing, her gray linen dress clung to her, damp and heavy. She may have blood on her hands, but she did not have to appear filthy.

The Waystation

The wooden shack leaned to one side, supported by a great old elm. It was one small room, the whitewash peeling, small stove, box of supplies, and lumpy bed the only furnishings. Drafts wafted through cracks; the waystation was rarely used, ill maintained. Casting his cloak onto the unmade bed, he opened the storebox. The grain was well kept, if old. Taking some oats, he fed his mount, tethered to a post outside, and pumped water from the well. The moldy odor of the shack seeped into his pores as carried the water within to make a porridge for himself.

The Rime

Hard rime flourished in the trees, transforming the forest into a crystalline chapel. Light streamed through breaks in the cloud-cover, dazzling across the icy ground. The wind was calm, but the cold was brutal, threatening to induce never-ending sleep to any man stopping for too long. The cadre, two women and a man, moved briskly on foot. They had left their horses behind miles before, when the ground had become permanently frozen and forage was no longer viable. Swathed in their heavy white cloaks, layered in coats, three trudged forward. Their packs were lightening daily, but their destination lay north.

The High Pass

The rocky outcrop provided little protection from the wind driven rain, but it was better than trying to sleep on the side of the mountain. He wrapped the oil treated silk rain cape tightly about himself in a futile bid to keep dry. The pass, little more than a goat track, wound through the mountains allowing him to pass unknown, at the expense of taking a week rather than the few days. How many times had he lost the trail and doubled back? The main passes were all guarded and taxed, however, and it was imperative his entry not be known.

The Stillness

Her back was knotted, stiff as iron. Days in the saddle had covered her in small sores. Thoroughly miserable, she lay still on her bedroll, staring up at the cloudy sky. The grey shapes bubbled peacefully in the night sky, in sharp contrast to the fury of throbbing soreness she was. She took a deep breath and drew into herself, pushing, bending, her emotions and pain away. Her pain and annoyance were present, but not acute, rather like hot metal held through thick cloth. In the stillness, she considered her task. Haste was necessary, but she did not like it.

The Shard

“What is it?” Argen, his cloak wrapped tightly, motioned towards the glistening violet glass-like fragment hanging suspended in air. It resonated faintly, piercing; like a vibration in the mind.

Steven dismounted, sending snow up in a fluff as he landed. Settling his mare, he proofed his cloak against the cold, then approached, “It’s a Rift-shard: pure rift energy coalesced into physical form. They’re rare, and appear randomly, usually in places of extreme emotional history. I would not doubt if this was once a battlefield.”

Argen nodded. He could feel the energy bound within the shard, feel its desire for release.

The Slums

Children played in the muddy streets, their voices hushed but cheerful. A woman hung laundry in a window, and a young man selling coarse bread hawked and held his basket high. The buildings here were run down, but that was the fault of the landlords, not the tenants. They eked out what life they could for themselves. Not the worst neighborhood in the city, by any means, this is where hard workers making survivable wages lived. She would find who he was looking for in the next ward, thieves, disreputable sellswords, and price-women. A slaver could hide in that mess.

The Tavern

He shared the table with several others, well dressed, possibly lesser nobles or merchants. The polished circular table was cut with a channel, allowing the barmaid access to the center. She swept in, quickly re-filling tankards, lifting silver pennies from neat stacks next to the empties. This was an establishment where you could leave money on the table and not worry about it. Well cared for tapestries adorned the walls and no chill seeped in. A strange place to meet, but Argen waited. He needed the information from this contact, but he had a feeling it would not be cheap.

The Traveling Show

The menagerie was something entirely new to her. Throngs of people streamed through cages containing lions, bears, and wild looking giant wolves. Sheltered by a striped tent, a man ate fire. Cacophonous din surrounded her, broken only occasionally by the roar of a lion or the trumpeting of one of the strange gray giant war cows. Rosalyn did not know the creatures’ proper name. She stood, transfixed by the acrobats and a man walking the tightrope deftly, carrying a child on his shoulders. The road had been hard, but a smile split her face. This was a well deserved treat.

The Harpsichordist

Sitting in a den of intrigue, she concentrated on the music. The young performer was well dressed, though obviously not noble born. The music issuing from the harpsichord was slow, soothing and melodic, softly filling the air and caressing her mind. In her soft, velvet cushioned chair, surrounded by plots, schemes and traps, the music provided an anchor, a sense of calm. Members of other houses, powerful and minor, drifted through the party some stopping briefly to introduce themselves asking after her plans in the capitol. Snakes, all of them, silk wrapped, samite swathed serpents; she was one of them.

The Anointed

It was an eerie calm, silent, the air still. Stars twinkled above in a cloudless sky. The black coat, embroidered in silver and red, hung past his knees as if carved from stone. His hand hovered over the revolver he had no intention of using. There were twenty of them, likely more. The rough band had their weapons ready; they had not spoken, nor directly threatened.

Argen took a step forward, hedging that Steven might buy him time or respect, “I am the Anointed Argen Teyr, apprentice to the fallen Honored Sir Steven Elan Trengale, the Hero of the Hinterlands,”

The Note

It twisted her inside, like an ephemeral hand inside wrenching her apart; her mind, her heart, her soul. She folded and placed the yellowed note in her pouch. Re-reading it again would not change anything. Smoothing her skirts nervously, her green eyes flashed absently, engrossed in thought, wrestling with her inner tumult. It was a time for action, not for thought. She haphazardly gathered her gear, not wasting the time to pack nearly, as was her custom. Her mind was mechanical in suppressing her loss, anxiety and pain. Instead, she planned and hoped. He was not, could not be dead.