Emile was almost late. She was nearly running through the library, but hardly a sound escaped from the plush carpet. Deep blue light flowed like streams between the looming bookshelves. Leaves and twigs were scattered before the window. She’d left it open again last night. The sound of a twig snapping underfoot made her frown. I need to remember to come clean this up later.

It would have been a nasty fall from the third floor if she missed the branch, but Emile wasn’t concerned about that. If she didn’t hurry they were going to start without her. She hardly had time to get her pad and charcoal when she heard the robin’s call. First again! The robin’s got it this morning. She made a mark on her pad and relaxed on the branch. Next to sing was the rusty bunting from across the street. A respectful time later was the rusty bunting from down the way, and his call was followed by a strange song.

Emile cocked her head to one side and listened intently. Someone was playing a rusty bunting’s song on a flute. It was good enough to get the buntings answering back, which made Emile smile. There was only one person Emile knew who would do something as ridiculous as that. She scampered down, sidling graciously past the robin’s nest while whispering an apology. With a final drop she landed on the soft earth.

Emile listened for the birds. The bunting from across the street sang again, sounding somewhat concerned, followed by the bunting from down the road, who sounded very concerned indeed. Emile stifled a giggle. The flute answered back, and she took off towards the sound. Past the pump where she filled buckets of water, and round the side of the inn.

Emile made her way up the only street, and felt a pang of regret about abandoning her friends. Well, it’s a special occasion. She smiled at the thought and started running. The courthouse was empty, but the bats were startled out of the belfry. On her right, Old Clyde’s shop looked abandoned, but she knew he was probably puttering around inside. As the only street in Kentvale turned into the King’s Road, Emile stopped and looked around. There wasn’t anyone to be seen. High above her head she heard wingbeats and looked in time to see a rusty bunting shining bright orange. It flew away from the road, lighting in an elm. Emile sprinted after it, swung around the tree, and straight into Fern.

Fern dropped his flute and let out a startled yelp. Emile giggled and wrapped her arms tightly around his stomach.

“Is that my little goddaughter creeping, when of course she should be sleeping?”

Emile released him from her grip and grabbed his flute before he could reach it, “Does Pa know you’re coming?” She chastised.

“I myself was unaware until you gave me such a scare.”

“How could a tree get lost? You said you were raised by trees.”

Fern placed his hand on the elm lovingly, “Trees do not get lost because they do not roam. One thing in this life I have learned on my own.”

Emile held the flute out to him, “Pa’s not going to like it if you just rhyme while you’re here.”

“Why? Do you think he has something to fear? Now, let’s get a look at you, my dear.” Like a dancer, he flipped the flute from her and snatched it up, slipping it into his back pocket. His other hand caught hers and twirled around in a never ending pirouette, “Hair like fire, legs like string, growing like a vine, but still can’t sing!”

Emile caught herself and gave him a stern look, “I can too sing! Pa says I’ve got a golden tongue!”

“I would never disagree with you, my child, and I’m not sure I even could,” Fern sounded serious for a moment.

“If my hair is like fire, then yours is like the night sky, but with more stars than I remember. Why are you really here anyway?”

“To sing songs and drink wine, and while we can sing here, I think, we need to make our way to your esteemed father, if I am to drink.” At this he broke into one of Emile’s favorite songs on his flute, and they started walking.

When they reached the inn, Fern raised his hand and caressed the small thatch wheel hung on the door. “This is the first Wheelwreath I have seen all season.” Fern started, and continued softly, “Oh, but of course. He’d never admit that they're treason.” Emile pushed in front of him and opened the big door.

The smell of baking bread was overwhelming and Emile heard Fern’s stomach rumble. “You must be hungry!” She pronounced.

“Who’s hungry?” Her father sounded polite, but concerned. Fern cringed when Pa peered out from the kitchen. “Really? A year without a letter and you skulk in before the first light of dawn!” He strode out of the kitchen, untying his apron, trying not to let his smile show through his big beard.

Fern extended his hands, “A single word and I'll be gone, leaving your inn without a song.” Emile heard her father groan and she grabbed Fern’s hand protectively.

Frederick laid his flour-dusted apron aside and swept toward Fern, enveloping him in a welcome hug. Emile heard him whisper, “Are you here to see your neglected goddaughter or do you have some news?” and Fern replied too softly for her ears, but it made her father gasp. He released Fern and scolded her, “And what were you doing out of bed to find this miscreant?”

Fern looked at his emerald-polished nails, and said demurely, “I have always considered myself a deviant.”

Emile laughed and opened her mouth to respond when her father’s frown made her hesitate. “Give your impertinent godfather a hug and get back to bed. No one will show up for another three hours and I saw you up reading again last night.”

She wrapped her arms around Fern, delighting in the fine velveteen of his jade coat, seemingly woven of leaves and vines. While lost in that warm moment, a violent rap shook the door, making her squeal. By the time she opened her eyes, Fern had vanished and her father had pulled her behind him.

“Open up for the Black and White!” Frederick relaxed and threw the bolt back. He opened the door to reveal one scrawny man in a suit of dirty black and white canvas. Black on one side and white on the other, but both turning grey with wear. The man tumbled backwards into his two guards, his boot hitting air where before there had been a door. High above his head in his white gloved hand was the Wheelwreath. Both of the chainmail clad men seemed as surprised as he was, though one of them was fast enough to step out of the way.

“Hey!” She shook herself free from her father’s grip, “Put down my Wheel! I made that!”

He dropped it and awkwardly stood. “Treason!” He shrieked, and turned as if he was going to stomp on the Wheel.

“Stop!” Emile yelled, “What do you want?” Frederick laid a hand on her shoulder and she took some deep breaths. Rude, it’s just rudeness is what it is, she thought but said no more.

With his boot still in the air above the decoration, the man answered, “I want food and shelter, as is my right as a Collector!”

Emile felt her father’s hand squeeze her shoulder again reassuringly, and she looked up at his bearded face, “What’s that have to do with us, pa?”

“Oh, I can’t say I’m entirely sure Emile, maybe one of these other young men can explain it,” Her father opened the door wider, “I’m sure we’d all be much more comfortable sitting down, wouldn’t we, Emile?”

“Oh, fine,” She turned to look at the motley group, “Come inside, but you two leave your weapons by the door.”

The two guards pushed their way in, dropping their swords and knives on a rack by the door, their heavy chainmail and boots making an awful racket. Emile frowned at all the dirt they were tracking in, as she knelt to pick up her wreath. The little loop she’d made to hang it from the door was broken, so she just carried it in with her, pressed to her chest.

“Right,” her father said in his innkeeper voice, “Why don’t you three make yourselves comfortable and I’ll get us all some tea.”

In the light of the lantern on the table, Emile could see that the two guards were young, much younger than she had first thought, and the man in black and white, a tax collector, was much older than she had expected him to be. Frederick returned with a tray, complete with kettle, pot and cups, and began laying everything out on the table, “So, does anyone take sugar? Cream?”

The boy’s loose fitting chainmail clattered loudly on the table as they both reached for the sugar bowl. Emile relaxed somewhat, examining the wreath and thinking about how she was going to fix it. Her father caught her eye as he laid a cup for her and said, “Emile, aren’t you curious why these boys are here?”

Emile set the decoration on the bar and walked to take her seat at the table, “Why are you here?”

All three of the men started to answer at once, and Emile stood up on her knees on the bench to reach the teapot in the center of the table, “One at a time,” she looked up, “You with the yellow hair.”

The older of the two guards spoke, and Emile noticed how angry the old man in the stiff suit was, “Our mum said that’d it’d be a good job for us. Guarding a Collector. You never go hungry.”

Emile used both hands to pour herself some tea, “Is that so? How old are you?”

“Fourteen ma’am,” Emile burst out laughing, spilling tea. Being called ‘ma’am’ by a boy twice her age.

“Oh sorry, uh, forgive me, and you,” she looked at the one with the brown hair, “How old are you?”

“Twelve ma’am but I lied, so don’t go telling anyone. Our mum said she couldn’t feed all of us anymore on account of our da’ running off drunk all the time.”

Father handed Emile a towel to clean up the tea she’d spilled. “You lot at the capitol are having a lot of trouble finding soldiers these days, and food too from the sound of things?” He stared right at the old man in his tattered black and white suit. “Seems like a waste for you to be worrying about what decorations I hang on my door, especially since you’ve already collected the taxes for the season.”

“That is none of your business, when I gave my last to the king and donned these clothes,” He gestured to his grubby black and white suit.

“How long ago was that?” Emile heard herself ask, interrupting the man. She’d seen officials in the stiff suits twice a year her whole life, and they’d always been clean and arrogant. And there had always been two of them.

“Thirty-Seven years ago, young lady! Thirty-seven years of loyal service to the crown!” The man tried to roar but his voice caught and it turned into a wheezy cough.

Her father rounded the table and patted the old man on the back, “I see, served under Hubert Carter, second of his name! Imagine they treated you with dignity back then. What’d you say your name was, sir?”

“Adrian,” he leaned back in the chair and took a long sip of the hot tea. “Aye, they did at that. I was a lad when the good king Carter died. I never met him. I met Hubert the Second. He treated us right. Took my last he did, and I never went wanting. The Collectors was his best idea, and he had a lot of good ones. Served him with honor, always had a partner then, and real guards too!” He smacked his bony hand on the table, “No offense lads, I know you try.”

Emile’s tea was still much too hot to drink, she never understood how people could stand such hot drinks. “So why would you tear down a Wheelwreath?” She felt bad asking, but the Wheelwreaths for King Carter. He was the good king, everyone knows that!

Adrian inhaled the steam rising from his cup and said with resignation, “I have to, we all do. King Puissant’s orders.”

Emile felt bad for him; felt bad for all three of them. “My pa says it sounds like ‘pissant’, says if you’re going to make up a name, it shouldn’t sound like ‘pissant.’”

Adrian grinned, “Aye, I know the song, ‘Ever ‘eard of a Pissant King?’” His grin vanished when a timid knock came at the door.

Emile began to rise from her chair but her father motioned for her to stay put. Adrian and his child guards seemed very tense as the heavy bolts were thrown back. The door opened revealing a chubby boy a few years older than Emile in a grey smock and a flat red hat. Emile thought it looked like a red pancake with a cherry on top. He stood stock still in the first rays of dawn, a large paper parcel held out protectively from his chest with both hands.

“Reggie,” her father boomed, “what’re you doing out so early, this far from the mill?”

“Begging your pardon sir, I don’t work at the mill no more. Pa said I had to go work for the magistrate.” Emile sat up in her chair and waved at him brightly. Reggie was a fat boy, not one for climbing trees, but he was one of the only children in the village that didn’t bore her.

Her dad gestured to the table and the spread. Adrian had already risen. He was trying to drink the rest of his hot tea in one go. Pa’s face looked worried for a moment but he spoke cheerfully, “Come in, come in, I have some fresh bread in the oven, and I have some hot tea. Working for the magistrate? That’s quite the honor for a lad, I imagine.”

“If you say so, sir,” Reggie sounded sad, “I can’t come in though, he said I was supposed to bring you this letter and then hurry back so I could serve at breakfast.”

Adrian was at the door now too, crowding the entrance, “Brutus is already awake? I need to speak with him at once,” he no longer sounded friendly and Emile frowned. Both of the boys at the table seemed like they were trying to hide behind their cups, “Come along lads, we need to pay the honorable magistrate a visit.” They sagged in their armor, but stood up all the same.

Her father said, “Son, tell him that it is a privilege just to be thought of by the most esteemed member of our community and that I will do my due service.” Emile was surprised to see her father click his heels together, and snap a military salute. The impromptu courier could not help but clumsily return the gesture. “Before you two go,” he turned to the boys gathering their swords and knives, “let Emile here fetch you some bread and hard cheese for the road, as is our duty, loyal to the crown as we are.”

Their grimy faces lit up, and Emile ran off towards the kitchen behind the bar. She heard Adrian say something about a true kindness before the door swung shut behind her. Inside the kitchen, bread was browning nicely in the large stone ovens, and Fern was drinking from a finely made wooden cup that she didn’t recognize.

“Why’re you hiding in here?” Emile asked pulling bread from a low oven with a paddle.

“I was simply choosing to be, somewhere that collector couldn’t see.” Fern tossed his cup straight in the air and jumped up on to the counter he’d been leaning on, then caught the cup with a flourish.

“Are your feet clean? You don’t even wear shoes,” Emile rummaged in a cupboard and found some cheese and dried sausage that she tucked into a burlap sack, “Your feet can’t be clean.”

Fern finished whatever was in his cup in one drink and pressed his hands together around it. When he opened them again, his hands were empty. He extended one foot straight out in front of him for her to examine, “Are the roots of a tree clean?”

She shook her head and went back to the dining room. Reggie and Adrian were gone and the two boys were standing in the doorway. Her father was clearing the table, and Emile handed the sack to the older boy, “You two be careful,” Emile warned, “Brutus is mean.”

They both nodded and thanked her profusely. When they started off, she heard the blond boy say, “See, everyone has to give food and shelter to Collectors.”

“Then why hasn’t anyone?” His brother asked.

“I don’t know, maybe they didn’t have any.” He shrugged.

Emile closed the door and returned to where she had been sitting at the bar. Her Wheelwreath was still there and next to it was the parcel Reggie had delivered, heavy with the magistrate’s wax seal. Fern made his way out of the kitchen and took a seat next to her, his wooden cup in his hand, full of dark red wine. He picked up the missive.

“Looks official,” He hefted the paper pretending it was heavy, “Beneficial?”

“More likely judicial,” Her father said, the wooden tray balanced on his shoulder and his fingertips. He winked at Emile.

Fern muttered, “When you do it, it feels artificial,” he took a drink from his cup and set a wooden top to spinning on the table, looking petulant.

“Emile.” She looked up from the spinning top. “Why don’t you open that up and read it for the sulky godfather and me, show Fern how well you’ve been studying your letters.”

She was aghast, forgetting how much her reading had improved in the last year., “I’ve been reading books on my own for three years,” she snatched up the folded up parchment and broke the wax seal. Six square chips of silver fell out.

Fern caught five of the chips, “Reading for an audience,” he dropped the five chips in front of her, “and a fee, is a lot different than reading silently.” The top stopped spinning.

She read, “To whom it may concert,”

“Concern.” Her father interjected.

“Concern!” She felt her cheeks flush and shot an evil glance at her father, “the honorable and just magistrate, Brutus Hedgford-” At this both of the men burst out into laughter.

“Let me read it!” Their laughter cut off instantly and both men stared at her in quiet attention, “To whom it may concern, the honorable and just magistrate, Brutus Hedgford, is issuing a bounty, upon the head of the villain Robert Cobbler, also known as ‘Robert Two-Eyes’ and his band of filthy rogues. To anyone who can bring an end to the vile deeds of this cowardly thief, a sum of five gold sheets and the eternal thanks of the village of Kentvale will be rewarded. Proof of this deed must be shown by either presenting the head or the corpse of Robert Cobbler to the magistrate of Kentvale.” Emile placed the parchment back on the bar and folded her arms proudly.

The heavy wooden door banged open and in swaggered a handsome young woman of sixteen or seventeen. She wore thin leather armor from helm to boots, and a somewhat rusted iron dagger coated in ichor strapped to her belt. She seemed winded and immediately plopped herself into a chair by the unlit hearth.

“Inn-keep, a mug of your finest ale for a brave adventurer, please!” The youth dropped a few copper chips on the table and took off her leather helmet.

Emile could hardly follow Fern’s movement, he was off the barstool and a moment later he was at the table. Before the girl he placed a wooden cup, exactly like the one he was holding, “My lady, pray, if I may this suggest, change this request. Wine flows from the vine,” he flourished his beautiful coat of velveteen foliage, “Ale’s a drink I find fit for cattle, and I think I find you after battle, allow me the privilege, begging your forgiveness,” he dropped a gold chip on the table and seemed to slide into the chair that was now touching hers, “Allow me to finance what you imbibe, and a chance to sing of what you describe.”

Emile hopped off her stool and moved over to the table, excited to hear a new story. Her father set down the big tray on the ledge by the scullery and called out, “Begging forgiveness, Fern does that to everyone he thinks has a story to tell, but he doesn’t have time to listen just now,” he made his way from behind the bar and filled a mug with ale, “and it’s certainly no business of his what you drink. Emile take this over would you, your godfather and I have some things we need to discuss in the kitchen.”

Emile grabbed the big horn mug and carefully carried it over to the table. Fern stood and made both of the wooden cups vanish, but he left the gold chip, “Alas it would seem, my host shatters my dream,” he bent at the waist, “I am Fern, all the same, I would learn, at least, your name.”

“I’m Julie, Julie of Chalkstone.”

Fern reached for her hand, Julie extended hers for a handshake, but he instead pulled it to his mouth and kissed her leather glove lightly. He released her hand and for a moment it hang in the air unmoving. Emile put down the mug and climbed up onto the chair that Fern had pulled so close to Julie’s.

Once her father and her godfather had disappeared into the kitchen, Emile turned to the young woman. “You were going to tell him a story? Did you really just come from battle?”

Julie picked up the mug and began to spin a grandiose tale of stalking an eight-legged monster through the swamp lands that surrounded Kentvale. She was just getting to the part where she drove her razor sharp blade into the beast’s back while nimbly avoiding its deadly mandibles, when Emile interrupted her.

“Wait! You mean you killed a giant spider?”

“Well, I was getting to that part, as I said, my courage finally overcame the very real fear I felt for my own life and I raised my blade high-”

“One of the giant spiders in the swamp?” Emile interrupted her again in voice a growing softer with each word.

“Uh, yes, as I was-”

“The ones that get about this tall?” She held her hand little more than a foot above the floor.

“I think it was a little bigger than that-”

“I think that’s mean!” She jumped up from her chair and started walking back towards the kitchen in disgust.

“Wait, uh, fair maiden, I was in fear for my life!”

Fern and her father had returned at some point during the story and stopped her on her way into the kitchen. Neither seemed angry, and her father said, “Not from around here, are you?” Julie shook her head, “those spiders in the swamp aren’t any threat to anyone but the rats and birds that get caught in their webs. Emile, don’t be mad at her, she didn’t know any better.” Emile retreated to the kitchen for a moment to make sure she wasn’t going to cry. There was nothing worse than hurting an animal for no reason. She listened at the door.

“Please, uh, noble innkeeper, I’m an adventurer in need of work. If you know of any dangerous dungeons full of ancient treasure, or any lost artifacts that need to be recovered?”

Emile could hear pity in her father’s voice, “Well, I have a whole pile of firewood I need chopped, and my back isn’t what it used to be.”

“Wait!” Emile was skipped out of the kitchen and snatched the magistrate’s letter from the bar, “you didn’t know about the spiders, but look!” She pressed the letter into Julie’s hand.

“Emile! No, that letter doesn’t concern her!” Frederick reprimanded sharply.

“Doesn’t concern me?” Julie was skimming the letter and mumbling, “this is perfect!”

“Listen, Robert Two-Eyes is a serious highwayman, he and his band have been robbing caravans. Caravans with armed escorts.” His words darkened with each word, “I’ve known good people who he killed.”

Oblivious to his foreboding tone, she asked, “Where is his hideout?”

“If I knew that, it wouldn’t be a hideout, now listen-”

“Of course, of course,” she was mostly mumbling to herself now “have to ask around the village, find clues.”

Emile eyed her with hope, “You could be a real hero like my mother was!”

Julie started gathering her things hurriedly “Thank you!” she seemed to remember the chips on the table and drained the mug grimacing with each swallow, “And thank you for the ale, the very best I’ve ever tasted! I shall return, with the head of Robert Two-Eyes! I bid you adieu!”

As the door slammed shut behind Julie, Emile looked at her father and Fern. “She’s beautiful.”

The men looked at each other, and it was Fern who said, “That’s irrefutable. A bounty hunter, though? Disputable.”