The following day was an early one. The sun had just peaked above the horizon, and most of the town's inhabitants were fast asleep. Arn shuddered as a cold gust ran through him. He lumbered gingerly after Ossagar, keeping his hands in pockets and scarf tight around the neck. Ossagar, meanwhile, was readying their horse and carriage.

"There's nothing like the quiet of pre-dawn," Ossagar mused while fitting the carriage harness. The man looked at Arn, who grunted in response.

Ossagar shook his head, then, after a pause, asked Arn whether he had accidents like the one last night at any other time.

Arn perked up at the question. What accidents? What happened last night? He wondered.

"It's not a trick question, boy," Ossagar grumbled impatiently.

"I don't know what you mean," Arn replied, grogginess mixed with irritation to produce an unmistakable tinge of annoyance in his voice.

Ossagar fixed Arn with a glare. He straightened his mustache, "channelling into your Tjoreal without meaning to," he said.

Arn screwed up his face in thought, "no," he said. "Wait, there was the one time in the carriage," he added.

Ossagar hummed and nodded, "interesting," he finally said. Arn waited for something more, but the man continued preparing their carriage in silence for a time.

"Have you ever wondered why the Inspectorate sends youths such as yourself on inspections?" Ossagar asked suddenly.

"I don't know," Arn said, "I always thought that it was to test us and to make sure the places we go to adhere to the laws. Isn't that the reason?"

"Oohoom," Ossagar said and nodded, pouting his lips. He turned to Arn and looked directly into his eyes, "no, that isn't the true purpose. You may find this surprising, but untrained youths make for poor inspectors."

The man laughed at Arn's expression, "not the answer you were expecting, eh boy?" Arn only managed to shake his head.

Ossagar flashed his eyebrows and nodded towards the carriage. "Get inside," he told Arn and climbed atop the coach box himself.

As he always did, Ossagar waited until they were well out of town before engaging Arn again. This time, however, he stopped the carriage and asked Arn to join him atop the coach box.

The sun had warmed the air, though not enough to make for a comfortable outdoor ride. Arn glanced at Ossagar and wondered how the man wasn't cold. His neck was exposed, and he didn't wear a hat. Arn, meanwhile, wore the parka and had his hood up. He was still cold. The forest around them was very still. Only the clip-clop of hooves and the rickety hinges of the wheels broke the silence.

Ossagar's peppered moustache rose when he pursed his lips, then, after a moment, cleared his throat. "Are you afraid?" he asked without taking his eyes off the road.

Arn tightened his eyebrows and looked at Ossagar. His mouth opened a couple of times, but he couldn't decide on the words he wished to speak.

"Fear isn't shameful," Ossagar said in a softer tone.

"I am not afraid," Arn answered. "Why would I be? It's not a real mission, is it? It's just a test."

"What makes you believe that it isn't a real mission?" Ossagar asked.

"You said it earlier - we don't make for very good inspectors," Arn replied, his eyes focused on the hind legs of the horse.

"I have, haven't I?" Ossagar said.

Why should I be afraid? He said that the province is safe, the West is safe, The East, all the directions, Arn thought. He looked at Ossagar, who continued to stare ahead. What does he want from me? Arn wondered. He keeps asking all these questions, is this part of the mission?

"Why did you ask me whether I was afraid?" Arn finally said. At that, Ossagar turned to him for just a moment.

"Why, you say? Because fear is the great lever of society. It can make us act; it can directly speak to each of us in our own minds," Ossagar said in a distant voice.

Arn was taken aback by the answer. How does fear speak in people's minds? He wondered, and just as he did, the answer came to him. The small voice that whispers, warns, makes things not as they seem. This is what Ossagar must be speaking of. Arn looked at the man.

"I can sense a measure of comprehension in you," Ossagar said with a small smile. "Its nature is the very reason why you cannot avoid fear. You must know it as well as you know yourself."

"But you just said that it's a lever to control me; shouldn't I avoid it?" Arn asked.

"An unknown weakness is the one that will bring your downfall," Ossagar said. "You must know your weaknesses better than your strengths, or you will fail to plan for them."

Arn stared at the side of Ossagar's face. He noticed the purplish shadows under the man's eyes and the rough stubble that covered his cheeks. There was more grey in the mustache than Arn remembered.

What are my weaknesses? He wondered.

"You'll identify your weaknesses soon enough," Ossagar said, then looked at Arn, who recoiled in surprise. Ossagar chuckled and straightened his moustaches. "No, I didn't read your mind. It is plain enough what you would think. You'll spend a lifetime trying to make up for them, though."

"Make up for what?" Arn asked.

"The weaknesses, boy - are you with me?" the man said, a hint of annoyance in his tone.

"Oh, right," Arn replied.

"We should arrive at Kalarhan within the hour," Ossagar said. He took a deep breath of the clear forest air and closed his eyes. "I'll let you think on our conversation."

To Arn's surprise, he wasn't asked to return to the carriage. Instead, they rode into Kalarhan, both seated atop the coach box. Unlike Nysaros, the forest came right to the edge of Kalarhan. The town was much bigger than the ones they stopped at on the way but not quite as big as Nysaros.

Arn gawked at the people in the streets, and they, in turn, stared at him.

"Mind your eyes," Ossagar said under his breath. Arn did his best to focus on the buildings after that. They weren't that different from Nysaros, just older and less well-kept. They followed a large road that cut through the industrial sector of the town. Arn spotted a tall building up ahead.

"You should get yourself to the Small Council tomorrow. Follow the instructions you were given," Ossagar said in a low voice.

Arn put a hand on his backpack intuitively. Introduce myself as a scholar on my learning path - the Lonthlarad, specializing in border town history; his lips moved as he practiced the line in his mind. Ossagar frowned at him as he watched from the corner of his eye.

They stopped a short way from the tall building, and Ossagar explained to Arn that this was the Scholar's Shack, the place where he would spend the next six weeks. Arn climbed down from the carriage and watched Ossagar drive away - the man didn't look back or say goodbye.

The inside of the Scholar's Shack looked much like the other inns he stopped at during their journey: reception desk, a tavern on the first floor, and stairs up to the overnight rooms. He tugged at the straps of his backpack and approached the reception.

A man with an exceptionally long nose looked him up and down, then lowered his glasses, "can I help you?" he said, his voice droning and inflectionless.

"Yes, please, I am looking for a room," Arn replied.

"What sort of room, please?"

"Erm," Arn wasn't ready for the question; he hadn't considered that there was more than one type of room. Previously it was Ossagar who arranged everything. "Whatever room I can get with the Scholar's token." Arn showed it to the man.

"Oh," the man rolled his eyes, "that again," he breathed loudly and blinked at Arn very slowly. He pressed a long finger to the token, and his Tjoreal bracelet glowed faintly. "Well, it appears to be real, but we are a bit overrun by Scholars these days if you please."

"But aren't I in the Scholar's Shack? "

"Naturally, yes indeed."

"Where would you send me then?" Arn asked.

"I wouldn't presume to dictate your destination."

"But this is the Scholar's Shack!" Arn raised his voice. "Scholar's," he repeated and pointed at his token.

The man pursed his lips and glared at Arn, "we're a bit full, m'kay?"

"Well, I don't have a choice!" Arn raised his arms "don't you have anything, perhaps a room no one else wanted?"

The man considered, sighed, then said, "how about the attic? A tiny room in the attic is still available, m'kay?"

"Is there heating?" Arn replied, then shook his head "nevermind, I will have the room."

"Mhm-kay," he opened up a massive leather-bound ledger and began making notes.

"Your name, sir?"

"Arn sar Nyra."

He glanced up at Arn, who could have sworn that the glasses the man wore slid down his nose of their own accord. "Please, if you may grace me with your full and proper name?" he looked at Arn for a few moments, "m'kay?" he finally said.

"Arnyrath Sar Stonefather"

"Mhm-kay." The man wrote Arn's name and signed in one of the boxes. "The room is yours, come down for breakfast between eight and eleven in the morning, and dinner is served at the Great Hall. You may have it there with the other Scholars - at the Scholars' table."

"What about lunch?"

The man looked at a watch. "No, thank you, it's a bit late in the day for me. M'kay?"

"I, um," Arn blinked. "Can I go to the room?"

"It would be well, yes. It's room number thirteen. Here is your key," the man took out a small and ancient-looking key. Arn reached for it, but the man pulled it back. "One second, please," he said, then held the key and concentrated.

Nothing happened as far as Arn could tell, but a moment later, the man asked Arn to touch the key - which Arn did. Both the key and the man's hand glowed dimly, then stopped.

"Now then, the key is calibrated to you, and you may now go to the room," he said.

Arn took the key and turned it over in his hand. It didn't look like it had many winters left. The man at the reception was already busy with another visitor. Arn shrugged and went up the stairs towards his room. By the third floor, he noticed the change in the Inn's condition. Each floor had a few more cracks, a bit more dust, and a few extra spots with peeling paint.

The stairs ended on the fourth floor, and Arn walked the hallway until he saw another set of stairs leading up to the attic. Narrower and creakier as they were, the stairs only led to a single door at the end of a small standing space. He spotted the lopsided and scratched-up sign with "13" on it. These few weeks are going to be long, he thought.

To Arn's surprise, the key turned smoothly, and the door itself didn't creak. He entered what turned out to be a modest but well-tended room with a single narrow window. Warm light flowed in after he pulled the curtains apart. It bathed the room in a soft glow, illuminating old but well cared for furniture and a neatly made-up bed.

Could be worse, he thought, as he walked over to the table and looked for matches to light a candle. The evening light was growing dimmer by the minute, and he intended to go over the letter from the Inspectorate before sleep.

A thorough search of the drawers yielded a nearly empty pack of matches - one of which lit the candle. The room was immediately filled with a flickering yellow light. Arn yawned and rubbed his eyes. He looked at the small wooden chair, then the bed, then the chair again, and finally made up his mind: today, he'll work from his bed. Once under the covers, Arn felt safer and more at ease than he did for days. He stifled a yawn.

Arn held up the letter from the Inspectorate and skimmed to the description of his tasks. It was a concise list of focus areas: daily ceremonies, weekly ceremonies, Small Council leadership, general mention of Elar'saga, and a separate section for the other lesser spirits. The Inspectorate didn't provide much detail though Arn didn't really need it. His parents drilled the procedures into his mind over the three weeks he spent waiting for the summons.

He yawned again and stretched his arms. Enough for today, he thought. Arn put the letter on his desk, blew out the candle and turned in for the night.