Sing to me o’weary man.

  Of skin and soil

  Of grime and boil.

  In dungeons dank

  And prisons rank

  Where wretched go

  And suffer woe.

  -From the song Caravan of Misery, ascribed to the elves of the Tribe Mosqua

  “How did this happen,” Atilan demanded, throat tight.

  He heard a thick swallow of nervousness from beside him, saw the shadows flit back and forth, stepping carefully so as to not awaken a bear. They were too late for that, Atilan’s knuckles were white as they tightened on the pommel of the Unicorn horn.

  “I haven’t the faintest clue, Sir Vessel.” The warden was a slimy looking fellow, and he spoke wetly, as if his tongue was glued to his gums. The people who ran dungeons and jails such as these were often a wretched lot, spending much of their lives in the dark, doling out miserable sentences to prisoners. It attracted the kind of people who had little power in their personal lives, and who wanted the ability to be cruel to those beneath them, but who lacked the luck to have been born to the nobility. Bullies, in other words. More and more, Atilan had been realizing there was a great deal of bullies around, and they were not exclusive to the highest rungs of society. They lurked and dwelled across the entire spectrum of life, they just manifested in different ways.

  “Not, the faintest clue,” Atilan repeated, eyeing the warden–his name was Pharron, but in the bowels of his domain, he preferred only to be called warden. A protection in his mind, for when one of his denizens went free, it would make him harder to find without a name if they were the vengeful type.

  “From my understanding, Pharron,” Atilan said, his tongue lingering on the name, letting it hang in the air, “you are alone in your duties here, tending to your flock. There is but a single door into these depths, and only yourself and Captain Gavin have the keys to the prison here. I am entirely certain Gavin was not responsible for letting anyone in here, as he was left wounded at the protest, and his keys were on his person the entire time. So that leaves you here, alone, as the sole guard, sole witness, to the events here. Yet you claim not a single soul came into this prison. Can you explain what happened to me again?” Atilan pushed, still staring into the room, his stomach nauseous. He was so tired, it was hard even to stand. He had seen too many awful things today. He had dealt with too many annoyances today.

  Yet he had to keep going.

  He felt a twinge of regret, at having to push the warden, threaten him with the utterance of his name, but Atilan knew how to bend people to his will. He had gotten good at manipulating people, working them to his advantage. Pharron would not be the type to spill secrets without being forced. Tyrants like he dealt in secrets and lies, and worked for the cruelest bullies of them all. He would not have survived here so long if he were loose with his tongue. So, as always, the ends justified the means. The words burned Atilan, yet he still pushed on.

  “Of course, Milord,” Pharron replied, bowing and scraping at the floor, the spittle thick in his voice. “It was as I said. Right after the protest, they brought Harold here, all tied up and unconscious, muzzled and everything. I was told to keep him tied up and to not let him be. I was given silver manacles and everything Sir Vessel. I did as I was asked, kept an eye on him. He didn’t do much speaking, even once he was awake. I did some poking and prodding, but he wasn’t much forthcoming, if you catch my meaning. I let him be, as it wasn’t my responsibility though. I stayed in my office. A couple of soldiers stopped in, Jehan briefly went in, spoke with the blasphemer for a minute, and left. Besides–”

  Atilan held up a hand. “What did Jehan say?”

  Pharron crooked an eyebrow, sweat beading on his face. His eyes twitched. “I don’t right know Milord, I don’t make a habit of listening–”

  “Do you think me a fool?” Atilan asked, twisting his voice to make it as deep and threatening as possible. It uneased him how easily he slipped back into the role of a bully. Atilan gestured inside the room, where Harold Lusamyre, High Nobility and now confirmed blasphemer, was dead, hung from a thick rope, barely a few inches off the ground. “I know how worms work. You say your work is in containing prisoners, but you deal in blackmail, you pry lies from prisoners, and work them ragged. I am well aware you listen in to nearly everything said within these walls, and the little you don’t hear, you wrench from the ears of other prisoners. I have had a very long day Pharron, and I am in no mood to listen to lies. What did he say, or so help me, you shall know the wrath of the High Father.”

  The last words came with a whisper of power, light pulsating from Atilan, as a few Strands briefly popped into existence before fading away. They revealed the glistening beads that drenched Pharron’s bald head and coated his shirt. He twitched at the sudden light, backing away as a rat surprised by an opened door.

  Pharron raised his hands in acquiescence. “Of course Milord, no ill intent meant against you, I am not one to share–”

  “Hurry up.”

  “Of course.” He swallowed. “Jehan said little, I promise. He came in, asked Harold what happened, and got only a few grunts in response. He left quite annoyed, I can promise that, practically bit my head off when I wished him well.”

  Atilan watched Pharron the entire time he spoke. He moved a lot while talking, made gestures, eyes flitting around as if trying to find an escape, and the entire time his head seemed to be shrinking back into his body as if he thought he could disappear if he made himself small enough. He was not lying, Atilan was sure of that. Atilan held a hand to his Unicorn horn, and it sensed no deceit. It was far from a perfect test, as separated as it was from its Spirit, much of its original power had waned. But Atilan could read people on his own merits, and he figured Pharron would gain little from lying here. Atilan nodded. “And you give me your word, you let no one else through, saw no one else enter?”

  “Yes Sir Vessel. What happened here was impossible.”

  “Impossible, yet still it happened. You are dismissed, Pharron.”

  He saw the jailor’s eyes widen. “Dismissed Milord? This is still my place of work, I insist that–”

  Atilan slowly drew the Horn from its sheathe, and half-turned towards him. Pharron’s face blanched and he bowed himself away, body scraping the floor as he vanished from sight.

  Atilan turned his attention back to the issue at hand. Harold was hanging from a thick rope, his feet barely an inch from the floor. He had tied the rope to an exposed pipe on the ceiling. Atilan bit at his mouth while he slowly circled the noble. Harold was wearing rags, his own clothing having been ripped apart by his transformation into the werewolf. Petechia had formed around his eyes, small little bubbles of burst blood vessels. There was a stench of death already. He must have killed himself quickly after arrival, based on the stench. Atilan looked into dead eyes, trying to glean anything from Harold’s face.

  This was not right. Atilan did not know much of Harold, but he knew House Lusamyre, knew their principles. They lived in the snowy wastes in the north of Artaghan. Dark spirits dwelled there, the nights were frigid and dangerous. Lusamyre prided itself on being a hard sort of people, both House and citizen. In battle, they were ferocious, their Gift was said to inspire a battle-lust in their Mages, and helped them not fear death. But it extended only to death in battle. Atilan doubted Harold would be willing to die so easily outside the realms of action. It would not have been the fate he sought to die alone in a prison, killed by a length of rope. Atilan touched his arm, feeling it stiff and cold, his fingers locked and curled into balled fists.

  The rope had to have been brought in. It was far too thick to have been used as a belt, and bore no signs of wear aside from the neck had rubbed at it in strangulation. It was used only for this purpose of death. Why use a rope? Atilan suspected the bedsheets could have worked just as well. He kept tapping his fingers against his side, as he kept circling the corpse. He was missing something here. Could this have been the Red Wraith? It would make sense. Harold was a Nobleman. But why make it look a suicide, and why go after him the same night they had struck the church? Besides, Atilan suspected Pharron would have glimpsed red had this been the Wraith. Yet, maybe they were connected still. The Black Shepherd. The words of his omen were now etched into Atilan’s mind. Two blasphemers: a Sophomancer, and a Gravimancer. Could they be connected? Working as one? What if this wasn’t a suicide, but a murder, meant to prevent Harold from spilling secrets?

  Atilan kept pacing, prying into the dead to glean anymore information. But if that were the case, this was a sloppy execution. There was too much left here, too obviously faked. Only the veneer of a shadow had been pulled over the corpse to make it look like a suicide. Anyone who looked deep would discover what Atilan suspected. A Vessel’s demise is sealed.

  The words seared Atilan’s thoughts as he kept turning over the details in his mind. An idea struck him, and he drew the Horn. Faint light trembled from it, silver and cool. With precision, he prodded the tip of the horn to Harold’s chest, right where his heart would have once beat, where the soul would have existed. In return a very faint thrum of magical energy resonated down the length of the Horn and through to Atilan’s hand, like the static left behind after a lightning storm.

  The game continues. The words etched themselves onto Atilan’s mind, he could near see them seared onto his eyelids as golden strands of light. He stumbled back, as the words faded away. The voice spoke in his own voice, but they were not his thoughts. Atilan was trembling, his skin covered in goosebumps, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Atilan was supposed to find this, he had no doubt the Black Shepherd could have hidden his murder with ease, and Atilan would have never known. Yet, what did Atilan even learn here? Harold was tied to this somehow, but where to go from there?

  The answer was obvious, after only a second’s thought. He needed to speak to Judge. Harold had been brought here on his orders, if only as a mercenary. Atilan sighed, rubbing his eyes. Still so much to do. He needed to meet with his main contact in the city, Theothere. Jehan still wanted to speak to him. And there was the matter of Lydia and the Wraiths to settle, and he still needed to learn more of the Red Wraith and the Shepherd, and maybe coordinate with Lacian.

  Well, first things first, Lydia was also here in the prison, safe from what he understood: the Shepherd only dealt with Harold. Atilan left the room, the corpse still hanging from the ceiling.

  His footsteps sounded loud in empty, subterranean halls. They clacked on the old stones, as he passed by empty cell after empty cell. This prison saw little use, it had been made during the reign of Jasper Zeal, over three hundred years prior, and was designed to hold dangerous captives with magical ability. It rarely had a use anymore, and so grew decrepit, watched over by generations of bullies and crooks, on the off chance it was needed. It left Atilan unnerved, the space felt dead, and yet signs of life necromanced into it. Itterfire candles kept steady light in the halls, but left individual cells dim if not entirely dark. Some were dusty, whilst others were recently cleaned. Worse were the ones recently stained. One room, the stones bore dried blood on them. Atilan’s mouth twitched, seeing that. Perhaps, they deserved the fate they found here, but the longer Atilan lived, the more he hoped for the redemption of even the worst people.

  Yet one always had to be practical.

  Finally, he came to the door he sought. A guard stood in place, brought here to keep an eye on Lydia. Another question to search, why did Lydia have protection, but not Harold? Conspiracy amongst the nobility here? Yet the Wraith so hated Nobility. Questions, ever piling onto his shoulders. He yawned, forcing open his blinking eyes, and then stepped past the guard and into the room. Like Harold’s, it was near empty. A single bed. A pot in one corner. Lydia had been allowed her own clothes, though they were cut and bloodied from the protest. She lay on her bed, back turned away from him, not even jumping at the sound of the door creaking open. She did not fear assassins then.

  “Where is Gwynfor?” she asked, nearly as soon as Atilan stepped inside, still not looking towards him.

  “Gwynfor?” Atilan asked, taken aback. “Your…daughter–”

  “Niece–” Lydia said. She rolled into a crouch, hands resting on her knees, as she turned sharp eyes to Atilan. He had the impression of a hawk watching him from its nest, unsure whether or not it would dive for prey. “But you know not, you are clov’othen. Stupid to ask.” Lydia turned aside, staring upwards, where the sky should have been.

  Atilan knew only a little of the elven languages, but he thought he knew the Galadin word she used. It meant of the holy, or of the land, for a more literal translation. He smiled, though was unsure if it reached his eyes. “To you, I don’t know if I could call myself holy. I have done little to aid yourself or your people. Why do you ask after Gwynfor? Is she not in this prison as well?”

  Lydia was silent for a long moment. Atilan said nothing. He doubted pressing her would do little. She had a harrowed look behind her eyes. Lydia had seen much, perhaps more even than Atilan. He tended to believe himself the most experienced in whatever room he was in, but he would be a fool to think that always true. Lydia was older than he, perhaps much older. Elves tended to live longer than humans, the oldest were said to have reached two hundred–and rumours persisted of elves surpassing into years far older. She would have patience mastered by now, and forcing her would not draw out words.

  Finally, she said, “I think Dylon uses her–” she held up a hand, as Atilan’s eyes widened. “He has plots, and she is a piece. She has not visited, and nor has Dylon. Vanished, and no one tells me where.”

  Atilan bit the inside of his mouth, thinking. “I was planning on speaking to Jehan–Dylon’s superior in the city–perhaps I could learn more from him. But I know not where your niece is.”

  Lydia nodded. “Thank you.”

  “Do not thank me yet, I have questions still for you.”

  Lydia laughed. “Always more questions, I feel like a moth with her cub. Ask away, maybe you have more luck than the soldiers they sent.”

  “This protest, did you plan for it to end in bloodshed?”

  “Who am I speaking to?”

  Atilan paused for a moment, bewildered, then meaning dawned on him. “You are speaking to a man deeply concerned for the soul of the people here. No one else.”

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Lydia seemed to relax, leaning against the back wall on the bed now. Atilan would have made himself a chair, but he thought he would collapse from the effort. Lydia scooted to one side. “Sit, you are like a puppy yet to learn rest.”

  Atilan took her proffered seat, and did not dispute her claim. He knew he should have slept hours ago. He would, eventually. After a moment, Lydia leaned forward, resting her hands on her chin, not looking at him. “They took someone dear to us, and they took a child. I meant to have them back.”

  “The one arrested for being near Duhnlaid?”

  “Yes, he was a kulk for being there, but he was just curious. Wrong place, wrong time.”

  Atilan breathed in deep, then said, “You were ready for this. Dragon’s Fire is a rare substance, and very dangerous. It also has been banned.”

  “So?”

  “You risked the lives of innocents for using such a potent weapon.”

  “They harmed innocents first. Is that not human’s mantra? Eye for eye? Or perhaps was it eye for life? I recall for each crime elves did to protect their home, thousands more were harmed for human safety. I did what was needed.”

  Atilan stood up, beginning to pace. She was not wrong, yet still, it felt wrong. Despite bubbling with holy energy, despite being the embodiment of the High Father on the moral realm, Atilan heard nothing from his God. No direction on what was right or wrong. As always, it was up to him to mire through the swamp of uncertainty and come out clean on the other side. “Your people, who’s in charge without you? What can I do to help?”

  Finally, something else showed in Lydia’s eyes. A deep pain flared, loss, grief. Atilan knew the look well, he had caused it for many in his day, felt it a few times himself. He bowed his head. “Who was it?”

  “Malcolm, old friend. Dylon murdered him.”

  Atilan only saw her eyes for a moment, but they exuded hatred itself. “So those who remain are without a leader at the moment?”

  Lydia laughed. “Those who remain? We are ruined, years of effort on my part hewn from the neck all at once. I made a hydra, and you brought fire. No more, nothing more. I am a suil.”

  Atilan knew he stood before a revolutionary, a woman dedicated to the upheaval of stability. Yet, he felt he understood her. Once, she would have been purely evil to his eyes, a threat to the consistency that allowed civilization to continue. Yet, he had lived near twenty years in the results of their world, fighting to make it better. “Forests regrow stronger after a fire,” Atilan said.

  Lydia looked up, and he saw tears in her eyes. She began to open her mouth, when the door was suddenly thrown open without warning. Atilan drew his Horn, and light flared from it and the Strands around him, turning into a barrier of glass in front of him and Lydia. The elf had backed behind Atilan, crouched and feral looking.

  There were many people, many things he thought might make their way through that door. The Red Wraith, the Black Shepherd, perhaps even Dylon or Jehan. Atilan blinked more than a couple times at the unexpected arrival.

  “What a wonderful coincidence. Just the two people I sought.” The voice was all slime and lisp, hard on the ears, yet also somehow managed the accent of the elite, the assured manner of speaking which drew attention.

  Judge, Orc of Thespious, High Chamberlain to the Dragon, and High Lord of Sending, apparently decided to make an appearance.

  *

  The vessel was pointing his Unicorn Horn at Judge, though Atilan flicked his hand and the glass between them vanished. Judge saw exhaustion plaguing Atilan like the shadow of death. His eyelids drooped, his shoulders slumped, he was blinking constantly to force his body into action. What a wonderful stroke of luck. The weary made for easier subjects to mold. “What an unnerving coincidence,” Atilan began, still not letting his weapon drop–it was nice to be appreciated. Judge yawned obnoxiously, feeling the muscles of his mouth pull against his face. Yawning was a sickness which would spread, and the joy it would spark to silence the Vessel through his own sleepiness was a chance Judge could not pass. “You arrive to the city, right after death and destruction mire it, right w-wheeeen–” Atilan yawned. Judge smiled. “–the situation is most in need of someone taking charge. Highly unlikely, if you ask me.”

  Judge was all smiles, as he prowled into the room, straight towards the point of the blade. He need not fear Atilan. The vessel might intimidate other men, but Judge was no faux predator. He stepped right up to where the Horn prodded his chest, the tails of his coat flaring behind him, and crossed his arms looking bored. “What a superb proclamation Atilan, you wound me,” and he nudged aside the weapon, it seemed to off balance Atilan. “Hello Lydia, charming as ever. I hear you have turned traitor, is that true?”

  He saw her hands clenched, as if they gripped the hilt of a sword or tightened around a neck. She would kill a man without hesitation, unlike Atilan, that Judge was more than sure. She was one to be careful of. She was an image of hatred, Judge had only seen that look a few times, and had worn it himself on occasion. What wonderful memories those were. “You turned traitor first. Arrietty’s promises were spat and trampled.”

  “And so you wound me too. Yet, I remember no promises broken. Bent–perhaps–not yet fulfilled, but none discarded. Arrietty is a woman of her word.” Judge turned to Atilan, and wrapped an arm around him. He smelled like blood and sweat. Judge breathed in that fragrance like an old friend. “Believe what you want Sir Vessel, but I am here in the aftermath of these last few nights by nothing more than connected happenstance. A large number of the prisoners being sent to Ghost were soldiers for House Groloth, still denying Arrietty as Dragon. I wished to speak with them.” A truth, at least in part. Judge had suspected that the tensions would erupt soon, but how was he to have known when or if they would.

  Atilan twirled out from under Judge’s arm, and placed himself in front of him, though this time the weapon was now sheathed. He still looked uneasy. Judge loved that look, the wariness of the condemned, the worry of the uncertain. How his stomach must turn wondering why Judge was here, how he knew they both were here, wondering what he might have heard. Unfortunately little, they kept too quiet to listen from the other side of the door, especially for one who had hearing issues like he. Morterran curse his birth defects. Not that Morterran was real, a figment for those who needed some fictitious boogeyman to make themselves feel better. Who wanted to believe the real villains were your neighbors, or even worse, the ones who ruled over you. Judge smirked.

  “Your face,” Atilan began, and what a lovely reminder it made. “What happened? That wound looks recent.”

  “And when will you leave,” Lydia growled.

  “Your manners are constant as ever Lydia. Especially towards an old friend who spent many favors in order to rid you of your worst crimes.” high father above, it was lovely to see the shock in her figure, followed by the uncertainty of her gaze. Besides, it made for a good way to turn the conversation. “Crazy old Malcolm, well known disruptor here, and luckily for us, dead and unable to defend his name. At his feet all accusations have been laid, and his fellow provocators forgiven for the most part. Of course, those who took lives in the fray cannot be wholly forgiven, but they will escape death and instead be Banished.”

  Lydia moved like a serpent, her head bobbing up so fast Judge thought she might snap her neck. “Banished? You save them from the lions to instead be thrown to the wolves!” How kind and thoughtful she was to his mercy. “And how dare you besmirch Malcolm’s name. It was your dog who had him murdered. I–”

  “Lydia,” Atilan said, laying a hand on her shoulder. She nearly nipped his finger off, and looked instantly reproached by him. A dog well trained. “Careful. Have you been to Ghost? I promise you there is life to be lived there, my people will help them, they help everyone they can. Assuming they are not the type to give up on life, they will live well.” Their eyes locked. “Malcolm, he–”

  Judge waved a hand. “I heard the story from Jehan. My condolences for his loss, but he died in battle, one that you chose to begin. One life for many Lydia, I believe you’ve argued for similar circumstances in the past.” His voice was hard by the end, his teeth gritted against one another so that they sounded in his ears.

  “I…” Lydia looked sickened then nodded. “I have nothing more to say to you.”

  “How lovely, I do so love seeing a happy ending,” Judge growled, wearing his fake smile again. It fit him well. Though, he had been told it did little to make his features more appealing.

  Both of them gave sharp looks at him. Judge continued to smile and nod. “What do you gain from this? Lydia asked, staring at him.

  Judge raised an eyebrow, a hand placed over his chest. “I, gain something? What ever makes you suggest such a thing. Cannot I dispense charity like yourself or Atilan? Why must it be–”

  “Shut up Judge,” Atilan said. “We have worked together in the past, let us not pretend we haven’t an understanding. What do you want? And you have not so artfully dodged my prior question to have made me forget.”

  “Shame. Fine, business then vessel. You make it no fun.” He turned to Lydia. “You are leaving today to Dragon’s Throne. You made a public declaration to have a hearing before Arrietty, and that must be dealt with, even with crimes mostly forgotten. After that, I will have you speak to a friend of mine in the city, I will tell you more of him later. I think you would find them similar in thought and manner to yourself. Perhaps even, it will turn to your favor instead of mine.”

  “Unacceptable,” Lydia said. “Your dog Dylon has stolen my niece for some scheme, and has yet to pay for the murder of Malcolm.”

  Judge rubbed his forehead with one hand, taking the moment to itch the red and recent scar on his face. “I think you would discover in a court of law that Malcolm died in the heat of battle he helped provoke. No magistrate in the entire country would rule in his favor. You have my fucking condolences that he is returned to the earth, but there is a little to be done for it. And Dylon’s personal workings are neither of our businesses. If he worked out some deal with your niece, that is between them. I can give my word the moment he has returned I will have word sent to you of her safety.”

  “And, if she is not safe?”

  Judge threw up his hands. “Would Dylon’s head suffice? I doubt it would. All I can offer is maybes. But one way or another, you are going to Dragon’s Throne. The question is, whether or not it is against your will.”

  “Do you threaten me?” Lydia asked. Judge noticed Atilan shifted, a hand on the hilt of his weapon. Judge doubted Atilan would try and fight here, but the vessel had always been unpredictable.

  Judge sighed.”If you want to view this as a threat, go right ahead Lydia. But perhaps, in that thick skull of yours, consider I may actually have fond memories of our time together, and that this is my way of lending a hand. As for your niece, give me her name, and I shall try and assist her, once Dylon is back. You have my word, best as I can give it.”

  Lydia seemed to hesitate, and finally the vessel proved himself useful. “I have worked with Judge a few times. I think he is being honest here.” Judge wasn’t as sure, but it seemed to sway Lydia.

  “Fine, I go there. But on my spirit and soul, by tree and by wind, if Gwynfor is hurt, or worse, the very earth shall tremble at my rage.”

  Judge raised an eyebrow. It was perhaps the strongest promise he had heard Lydia make, or any elf make for that matter, and he had heard many such promises. “Duly noted.”

  Atilan was staring at Judge. “And what is your request of me?”

  “Quite simple really,” Judge said, lips pulled apart. “Kill the Red Wraith.”

  Atilan surprised Judge. He smirked, and a bit of the weariness drained from his features. In fact, he looked amused. Judge guarded his face, turning to neutrality. “Oh, is that all? I worried you would set more weight onto my shoulders.”

  So, he had already been set to this task, figured, considering the Wraith’s actions against Duhnlaid and the Church. Though, Atilan did not know the full reasons. Not that Judge would share such things with he. In the end, Atilan and himself were opposed, even if the sides had yet to all be revealed. “So, are we agreed?”

  “What is your opinion on the Red Wraith,” Atilan asked. “There is growing sentiment that the nobility is rotting from within, and that perhaps the Wraith is the hand of justice against those who would never face it otherwise.” Judge could feel the trap in the question.

  “The other day,” Judge began, a grim face turned to Atilan. “I was having dinner with Leodahn Cicero. It was a large party, many guests were in attendance. I had been invited as a jest. They all wore masks and costumes, while I arrived in only my usual attire. Leodahn had forgotten to inform me of the theme. I made a stark contrast to the rest of the lovely attendants. Even now, at the height of the world, I am mocked for my birth, and for my scars. While I was there, I overheard many things. Outside of court and dealings, I spend little time with my fellow noblemen and women. Leodahn in particular, bragged multiple times about the many maidens he had deflowered, both willingly and otherwise. He earned many laughs and congratulations from his audience, and all the while I stood nearby, fingers crooked in mockery at myself.”

  “You just sat there and listened to him jest about harming others?” Lydia growled.

  Judge raised a hand, silencing her, and feeling a flash of anger. “Are you quite done?” He waited, and she only glared at him. “The next night, Leodahn was awoken by the Wyvern Guard invading his home. His son was killed right in front of him when the idiot boy decided to try and fight five of them at once while only in his small clothes. Leodahn was arrested and executed the next morning.” Judge turned to glare now at Atilan. “There is a sickness amongst the nobility, I will never deny that. Power dries out the soul and leaves only withered husks behind. But I have met a few who seem immunized to it, and I fear she is soon destined to meet the Wraith. I will not allow that.”

  Atilan looked at him for a very long moment.

  “Arrietty is no saint,” Lydia said, though her voice was not as convicted as once it might have been.

  “Tell me, despite your disagreements, do you want Arrietty to meet the same fate as the Red Wraith’s victims?” Judge asked, staring at the elf.

  She bowed her head. “No…not yet. She has failed me, but she has many years yet to make things right.”

  “Then we are in agreement.” Judge grabbed Atilan’s shoulder. “Deal with the Wraith. Perhaps, she will be the one who can cure this sickness.” A lovely ideal, but Arrietty was but one woman. But those with a religious bent loved their ideals, and their symbols.

  “Not quite,” Atilan said.

  “Oh?” Judge said.

  “Harold Lusamyre,” Atilan began. Oh, that. Well, Judge figured questions would be asked.

  “I was not aware of his blasphemy vessel. I would have hardly hired him and sent him to so public a place and reveal himself, while so blatantly tied to him. Nor was I responsible for his murder.”

  “What!” Lydia said, shock in her eyes.

  “Murder?” Atilan asked, eyes suspicious.

  Judge rolled his eyes. “Harold would not commit suicide, I am sure you have reached a similar conclusion. If you suspect me, I shall give you all the documents I have, and will not impede investigations into my association with him. You will find nothing, I can promise that.”

  Atilan seemed to be trying to stare into Judge’s soul. Good luck to that, he would not wish to stare into that awful thing himself, though he doubted anyone’s souls–were such things real–would look so pretty.

  “Very well, I will do you this favor.” Atilan stood up. “But Judge, I warn you here and now, my penance in Ghost has been served to the best of my ability. The time has come for me to expand my work to all. I will not hesitate to expose corruption and villainy wherever I find it.” In Atilan’s eyes Judge saw true conviction, and for a brief moment, he faltered in his own. Perhaps it was a mistake to involve the vessel in his work, but Judge had no time to deal with the Wraith, and they needed to be dealt with.

  “Excellent,” Judge said, the ghost of a smile still haunted his face. “This was an entirely productive conversation.” And he left, no more words needed to be said. A few of his own guards replaced him in the room, to take Lydia to Dragon’s Throne. And now he had more work to deal with, his teeth grinded with the thought of Dylon. That moron had best not made a mess of the Unicorn. That had been a difficult and expensive endeavor, and Judge sorely needed the support of House Bitter in the future.

  *

  Atilan sighed, as Judge left the room, feeling queasy. He still had not answered his question about the new scar on his face, but Atilan had been too tired to press. More questions, more secrets, more weight on his shoulders. As Judge’s personal guards advanced into the room, Lydia whispered to Atilan before she was taken away.

  “If you can, please help Gwynfor.”

  And she was gone, leaving him with even more responsibilities.

  He would try, still, how could he not. Blinking away exhaustion, Atilan forced one foot in front of another. Step by step, he kept walking. He needed sleep, he needed to learn more. There would be time for sleep in the future. He needed to contact Theothere finally, then, maybe, he would find Jehan–assuming he even still needed to speak with him. Did Judge’s arrival replace that? He should have asked. High Father above, Atilan was tired.

  He kept walking.

  He kept moving.

  He kept working.

  It was his duty, after all. For if not him, who else?