“All I’m saying, you let a man finish.” A voice was heard coming from outside the door. “Whatever it is, said man is doing. Even more, if he’s about ready to watch ‘Bear’ running, then you know, deep in your soul… you knew, there’s a reason he’s there all anxious looking. What’s the reason?”

A slender man entered, followed by an unhappy looking officer. Dressed in a fine black doublet with red buttons, black pants and soft leather boots. Not as tall as Emerson, but finely built, perhaps on the thinner side. A year older than him, bald top with short hair on the sides, a week’s old beard dressing a familiar face.

“He’s bet on the horse.” The young officer replied defeated.

“There you go. Now, since no one bets on a horse named Bear for no reason; you got to run straight back like a good fellow and bring me my winnings.”

Lord Faber stood up furious. “Primus Molders! My man—”

“Is aware of his mistake my lord,” Nard replied; voice much as the Knight remembered it, his eyes staying on Emerson for a moment, before adding. “Let him make amends for Ora’s sake!”

“I will report this!” Lord Faber snarled, all that calmness he’d managed to accumulate in the hour they waited for Nard to appear, evaporating.

“As will I, if I lose this bet. Right here actually, I believe it is a mercantile violation.”

“Gabling!”

“That was my meaning. Now if you please, I’d like the use of this office, for… official Ministry matters.”

Lord Faber opened his mouth to protest, saw no way around it halfway through and closed it back up frustrated, without uttering a single word. Breathing hard, he marched out of his office fuming.

Primus Molders turned with the weariest of sighs, towards the silently watching the exchange Emerson and the amused Glen.

“Lord Emerson Lennox,” The Primus Minister and priest of Ora said in fluent common, his clever olive colored eyes dancing towards Glen and back, “last time we’ve seen each other you had no gray hair, and alas, I still had something left up there,” He rhymed.

“I just use Sir Lennox now,” Nard raised a questioning white brow at his words. Not wanting to dwell on it, Emerson offered him a hand and the man shook it a gleam in his eyes. “But everythin’ else you remembered plenty well. Twas in Anorum, I believe. Wit the Legion.”

Nard nodded and walked towards the heavy office table Lord Faber had vacated. He paused there, examining a large hand-drawn map of the three kingdoms. Huug Faber, apparently a lover of geography, had hang one on every wall of his office. Well that, and what appeared to be the portrait of a woman, too old to be his wife.

“Winter of seventy four, snow reaching the bellies of our horses,” Molders said reminiscing. “That’s a lot of years.”

Fourteen, Emerson thought, a frown on his face. The year his distraught mother finally passed.

But that was enough reminiscing for him.

So he said nothing.

“Please, use the chairs,” Nard offered sensing his mood worsening, sitting down himself. He waited, watching with interest as they manhandled two armchairs from the wall, to the center of the spacious office, in front of the ornamented oak table. “Can’t believe Faber had left you standing.”

“Don’t believe he likes me very much,” Emerson replied.

“Pettiness. Castalor is no Cediorum,” Nard commented and that was that.

“Is that your squire?”

“Sir Reeves’ son.” Emerson replied tensely. Molders mind was sharper than his sword skills, which explained his rise to the rank of Primus in the Ministry. Not everyone was cut to be a soldier.

Very few were, as a matter of fact.

Nard shook his head, carefully cutting the wax away from the scroll, using a thin sharp blade. “Any relation to the old Marshal? Lord of Altarin still, if I’m not mistaken.”

He wasn’t.

“His grandson, but not officially.”

“Imagine that. Got the makings of a scandal here.”

“Not exactly the time to bother wit etiquette.” Emerson countered.

Molders gave a slight nod agreeing, then put the silver paper cutter down and unfurled the scroll. Glanced at it, face kept neutral, but for his teeth biting the inside of a cheek. Stopped, reached a hand down and opened a drawer. Checked inside. Closed it. Then opened the next one.

A moment later he’d a bottle of wine opened and called for cups. Emerson watched in silence as he poured a fine red in the goblets an officer, other than the one from before, had brought them and downed it unceremoniously in a go.

“Please. You too young man,” He offered as he refilled his own, setting the scroll in front of him. Waited for them to have a taste, Glen gulping it down with enthusiasm, until a glare from Emerson put an end to it, before speaking again.

Going in an unexpected direction.

“Who killed Reeves?”

“A Cofol.” Emerson replied readily, same as he had to Lord Faber.

“Alone?”

“She’d help, I reckon. Sinking a ship is not an easy feat.”

“But the body washed up…” He stood up and checked the map, tracing the route from Rida, the capital of the Duchy, with a finger. “On Colant’s Refuge…”

“Shroudcoast,” Glen said, before Emerson could stop him.

“Yeah,” Nard agreed, returning to his seat. “Rather poetic, the body finding its way to you young man.”

“Reeves could’ve headed there initially, and the wreck was close enough.” Emerson explained seeing the suspicion on his face.

“Or used a boat to escape,” Glen added.

“Perhaps; is that what you used…” He glanced at the map again. “…to reach the Peninsula?”

“Wind did that. I’m no sailor.” The youth said defensively.

“No, you are not Glen.”

“What did the scroll say?” Emerson asked, wanting to direct the Primus away, before Glen said something too stupid, for anyone to explain. Lad was probably drunk already, he thought nervously.

Nard lowered his eyes on the opened scroll in front of him. Put an open palm on it and pressed to flatten it out a bit. Smacked his lips and had another sip from his goblet. Emerson had given up on him saying anything at all, when the senior Royal agent for the Ministry of the Interior in Castalor, broke his silence.

Again surprising the knight with a peculiar observation.

“You are well read, Sir Lennox,” Nard Molders said.

“Not as much I should’ve been, I reckon.”

Nard snickered lightly.

“Read your Histories?”

“Some, not much.”

“Had a copy on me always,” Nard recalled and Emerson not getting where he was going with this, started worrying. He changed position on his seat, everything bothering him all of a sudden. “Read it every day.”

“Aye. I remember.”

“What the Duke describes in this…” He pointed at the scroll. “…doesn’t exist outside books and Libraries. It’s ancient history.”

“What is?” Emerson asked edgily.

“I can’t show this to the king,” Nard disregarded his question. “On the other hand, I can’t… not show it. We were expecting word from the Duke. In fact, I should call for a messenger, when we finish here. Inform Lord Bach; bird will reach Riverdor before noon," He grimaced as if in pain. "We’re spread thin these days, it’s true. But it is no excuse. So it shall be done. Ora’s curse us.”

“Whatever it says in there,” Emerson said dryly, “Good people, died for it to remain a secret,” He paused, drained his own goblet in a go and put it on the table. “My gut tells me, it is the truth.”

Nard snorted. “My old friend, we are talking outlandish stuff. Things that could break apart the old treaties. Two centuries of relative peace. Ora’s having a laugh with us. But I will do what I must, I suppose.”

The man’s face showed his weariness, perhaps unable to hide his inner turmoil anymore, but his eyes remained sharp and focused. “Moment I mention his name, the lad will become a person of interest, in some very high circles. Knowing this trade, it may have leaked already,” Nard added, as an afterthought.

More a forewarning.

“How outlandish?” Emerson insisted, keeping his old friend’s focus on the first part, leaving the youth out of the conversation. The knight knew the risks from the start. First time he laid eyes on the Duke’s Shield, he knew. Boy was in trouble.

“Ever heard of anyone reaching the Sinking Isles, not glancing them from afar mind you and coming back?” Nard asked shrewdly, thinking he’d be impressed.

“I’ve travelled wit a Gish, last couple o’ days.” Emerson deadpanned. “Guess I should’ve asked her.”

And what may well be a real Zilan, but I ain’t tellin’ ye that.

Nard sit back stunned.

“No way. Here? In Castalor? So it’s true? Blessed be the Five.” He shook his head in disbelief. “My people told me there was one spotted in the market, but thought it an exaggeration. A dwarf, is not really a ‘dwarf’, you know?”

“Aye.”

Nard glanced towards Glen and Emerson followed his stare. The young man had fallen asleep on his seat, jaw touching his chest, empty goblet still in hand.

“You actually believe him?” Molders asked him, voice subdued. “His story is almost as fanciful, as what’s in this scroll.” When the knight nodded he did, the Primus probed him again. “Even if you do, why help him?”

“Ye know darn well why.” Emerson replied gruffly and reached for the goblet. Removed it, minding not to wake him and placed it on the table next to his. Nard Molders watching all the time, a nostalgic smile on his lips.

“Aye,” The priest of Ora sighed. “I know.

A knight shall defend the feeble and fight injustice.

Always.