Distracted by an incoming message from Lyraen, Segwyn didn’t register Glynfir’s recital from the well’s plaque. “Whose castle was it?”

  The wizard looked up. “Weren’t you listening?”

  Segwyn shook his head. “Sorry. Lyraen just asked me if I’ve talked to my father recently. Apparently, no one’s heard from him in several days.”

  Glynfir’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Is that unusual?”

  “Not particularly,” the ranger replied. “We’re not close, as you know, but he often disappears for days at a time. What’s unusual is that one of the housemaids is also missing.”

  The wizard’s eyebrows arched as he tipped his head in a silent prompt.

  Segwyn shrugged. “Infidelity hasn’t historically been one of his many flaws, but I stopped being surprised by his choices long ago. Anyway, whose castle was it?”

  Glynfir’s gaze returned to the gilded metal placard, mounted on the curved wall of the stone well. “Juron Kliger. According to this, he established the first magical school of higher learning right here almost six hundred years ago.” The wizard raised his head, scanning the building’s profile surrounding the cobblestone courtyard. “Apparently, he introduced an organized arcane component to Siremirian military tactics that was instrumental in establishing the League’s dominance over the tribal gnolls and orcs.”

  Segwyn followed the wizard’s gaze, admiring the castle’s silhouette. “Never heard of him, and I would have thought if he was that instrumental to the founding of the Siremirian League, his name would have featured more prominently in the history.”

  The wizard glanced back at the plaque. “According to this, he disappeared under mysterious circumstances a few years after beginning the program, but his ‘spark ignited the Siremirian spirit.’” An accompanying eyeroll betrayed his skepticism of the historical accuracy.

  The afternoon sun had already started to dip behind the nearby buildings, sinking toward the river.

  “I’ve just about had my fill of touring and sightseeing around Irdri. What do you say we check in on Turin and get something to eat before heading to the main event?” Segwyn shouldered his pack.

  Glynfir stood, dusting off his hands. “That works for me.”

  Leaving the castle and well behind, they crossed the cobblestone courtyard to the narrow side street and headed back into the town center. Shadows danced on the path ahead, cast by linens draped over thin ropes, pulled tight across the road between the open windows on either side. The smell of fresh laundry mixed with the underlying fragrance of the river.

  Glynfir unconsciously rubbed the fresh tattoo on the back of his neck. “How much do you think the general population knows about the Dominion and their activities in town?”

  Segwyn shrugged. “I wouldn’t think much. They would likely notice any peculiar comings and goings of larger groups—like tonight’s gathering, which is probably why they’re holding it on the docks where there’s limited visibility from prying eyes.”

  They turned left down a similarly narrow footpath with a more commercial flavor, passing a produce stand, a cobbler, and a smithy mixed in among the nondescript residential entrances dotting either side.

  The ranger continued. “Other than that, I’ll bet the town itself is largely clueless about what’s going on under their noses. I would expect most recruiting to be done elsewhere.”

  Glynfir pointed at a wooden sign hanging over a door down the block, boasting a dark green drawing of a serpentine wyrmling and a feather quill. “That must be the place.”

  Strolling past, they looked in the window to find Turin, poised over a shirtless male dwarf lying face down on a padded table, pausing only for a moment before the druid looked up. Meeting their gaze with a nod, he tipped his head to the left. The pair proceeded around the corner to a side door and waited. A few seconds later, Turin popped his head out.

  The ranger kept his voice low. “Just checking in, any news?”

  Turin paused, looking in both directions behind them, stroking his beard. “Confirmed you’re at building four, just after sunset, nothing else of any consequence.”

  Segwyn nodded while Glynfir casually flicked a finger toward the shop window. “What do you do if someone wants a tattoo in a more private area?”

  The druid’s head pulled back in confusion. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, from the street, the shop is wide open. You can see everything inside. If I wanted some ink somewhere a little more private,” the wizard circled his midsection, “I wouldn’t want every passing degenerate getting a free show.”

  Facing silence and furrowed brows in response, Glynfir spread his hands. “What…? I’m sure the ladies must have similar concerns.”

  Segwyn shook his head. “I think you’ve been spending too much time with Tsuta. His lack of a verbal filter is wearing off on you.”

  “Under the circumstances, I would have thought you had bigger things on your mind, but there is a curtain I can pull across for privacy,” Turin craned his neck for a look back into the shop. “Now, if there’s nothing else, I need to return to covering that dwarf’s back with a snarling griffon.” He looked expectantly from one to the other. “Right then.” He stuck out his hand. “Best of luck tonight, and I’ll see you back at the cottage.”

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  They shook his hand, and the druid disappeared back inside, leaving them alone on the empty street.

  Stepping back to the corner, Segwyn scanned all directions from the intersection. “We might as well find a pub, we’ve got a couple hours to kill before showtime.”

  A grin spread across the wizard’s face as he rubbed his hands together. “Maybe we’ll even find a dice game, if we’re lucky!”

  Back at the agora, Bird threaded his way through the dwindling crowd, eyes darting left and right, hoping to catch sight of the others. Clutched in his hand were two folded pieces of parchment, complete with wax seals. Before long, a flash of white hair and the glint of a bald head identified his targets, sprawled out on a grassy common area in the market’s center.

  Whydah, leaning back on her elbows, looked up, squinting into the afternoon sun. “What took you so long? We’ve been finished for almost an hour.”

  The tabby flopped onto the grass between Lunish and Iskvold. “I had to negotiate jukrum, so I can operate while we’re here in Irdri, without attracting the daggers of the Guild.” He waved the papers in the air. “Plus, we got mail, and I had to explain the whole situation to Forni, the woman who runs things here.”

  Tsuta, meditating cross-legged, opened his eyes. “And? How’d it go, Whiskers? Do we have another ally?”

  Bird nodded. “A quiet one, yes. She sees the threat to the town and the Guild, and will work with Downey to spread the word. She’ll help where she can, but has to tread lightly given the level of local Dominion activity.”

  Lunish pushed herself into a sitting position. “So, what did our friend Garrett have to say?”

  The tabby handed her one of the letters, passing the other to Whydah. “See for yourselves. How was the shopping? Anything interesting?”

  Iskvold, drawn to the letter’s contents, looked over Lunish’s shoulder as she tossed a silk bag to Bird. “I think I’m getting the hang of this spying stuff. I ferreted out quite a bit of detail about The Zulm and the mysterious Khamu and Sayeh from the market vendors.”

  Lunish looked up from reading the letter. “She’s a natural!”

  Bird gave her an appreciative nod. “So, what’s the intel?”

  She glanced at the bald monk. “Tsuta thinks they’re undead of some kind, and they seem to stick pretty close to the boundaries of the Zulm.”

  Bird turned to Tsuta. “Any idea what flavor of undead we’re dealing with, Stick?”

  Tsuta shook his head. “They’re definitely not the garden variety Zombies or Wights, given the powers the locals described—dropping people with a look and draining life energy from a distance. Beyond that, it’s difficult to know for sure, especially when we factor in third-hand exaggeration.” He cocked an eyebrow. “But with names like The Shade and The Smother, we shouldn’t take them lightly.”

  Iskvold jumped in. “And there are a couple of other inconsistencies.”

  Bird turned back to the drow. “Such as?”

  Iskvold counted out the points on her fingers. “First of all, they have been around for hundreds of years, apparently, but there aren’t many recent accounts. So, we don’t know if they even still exist.” She extended a second finger. “Plus, the Zulm is more than fifty miles long and straddles the river, yet our undead friends seem to show up fairly quickly, regardless of where anyone enters from. That alone is suspicious at face value.”

  “Without powerful arcane assistance, there are no undead creatures I’m aware of that can cover that much distance quickly,” Tsuta confirmed.

  Bird’s brow furrowed. “How does one know when they’ve crossed the threshold into the Zulm?”

  Iskvold nodded. “I wondered the same thing! It turns out that the name, The Oppressed Lands, is quite literal. Apparently, the entire area is under some form of permanent blight. One side of the boundary is rich, fertile farmland or woods, and the other is nothing but stunted scrub brush. They say it even smells sick.”

  Lunish and Whydah looked up at almost the same moment, wordlessly swapped letters, and continued reading.

  The tabby stroked his whiskers. “But, if Turin’s information is correct, and the Dominion holds some significant gathering in the Zulm, then either these undead bogeymen are nothing more than a fairytale, or they have some method of avoiding them.”

  “Well, you can’t reason with the undead, so avoiding them would mean being entirely undetectable.” The bald monk idly tapped the points of his medallion sequentially with different fingers. “That’s possible, of course, with magic, for small numbers or short periods. Not so easy with large groups or extended timeframes.”

  “So, your coin is on a fairytale, then?” Bird teased his friend.

  “If I were Mustache, and placing a bet, yes.” Tsuta confirmed.

  Finished with the letters, Whydah and Lunish exchanged glances. The bard spoke first. “If you two are done catching him up on the local gossip, we need to talk about what’s in these letters.” She held the paper in the air, craning her neck to look Bird in the eye. “You haven’t read these yet, have you?”

  Bird bowed his head, looking sheepishly at the ground. “No,” he admitted, “I thought I’d leave that to the more academically inclined, and let you tell me about the important bits.”

  Whydah scooted closer to Lunish so the two could see the contents of both letters simultaneously. “If I’m understanding this correctly, then I think we know exactly what’s going on at those ceremonial gatherings in the Zulm.”

  Iskvold’s face brightened. “Oh, good!”

  Lunish’s features were ashen as she shook her head. “No, not good. Very, very bad.” The others straightened at the gnome’s sunken tone, giving the pair their full attention. The gnome cast a deferring gaze on Whydah, who finally spoke.

  “This larger gathering you want us to sneak into, out in the Zulm…” She was looking squarely at Bird, “…is the Red Queen’s soul harvesting ceremony.” She paused, letting her words sink in. “From what Ferrier writes, its purpose is for her to either convert or consume the poor souls collected by her Dominion reapers.”

  Lunish chimed in, her voice barely above a whisper. “That means she's also going to be there. We’ll be embracing the very thing we’ve been trying to avoid at all costs.”

  Her words hung in suffocating silence as the group exchanged nervous glances with each other that ultimately landed on Bird. The overhead cry of a gull snapped his attention back into the moment.

  “We don’t have time to think about that right now. As long as she’s not at the docks tonight, then that’s a problem for our future selves to worry about before we head to the Zulm.” He stood, his eyes locking on each of them in turn. “If we don’t get in and out of this meeting with the details of the next soul harvesting, then it’s irrelevant. And if we don’t pull it off without Woodsy and Mustache being captured, or even detected, then all bets are off.” He drew a deep breath. “Since we all know there’s little choice but to go anyway, a slip-up tonight means the Dominion and a lich will be ready and waiting to add the stench of our rotting corpses to the Zulm’s putrid aroma!”

  He scanned their surroundings suspiciously before squatting down to their seated eye-level. “So, I strongly suggest we put that disturbing new detail out of our minds for the moment and focus on tonight’s plan. Do we know the timing and location?”

  “Yes, Glynfir said it was right after sundown, building four—end of the pier.”

  Bird nodded. “Then if we want to be in position before they start to lock things down by the waterfront, we need to get moving.”

  The Glimmerstone Enigma and The Siremirian Conundrum?

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