Agshraf’s walls weren’t as high as he remembered them to be. It was the first thing he noticed when he approached the city. Atela’s body tensed, and he relaxed his muscles in return, trying to ease her discomfort. She did not comment on it, in fact, she did not speak to him at all at the moment. She was angry, properly angry, and had walled her thoughts against him. Now these walls. They were high and impenetrable. He had tried every night for the last three weeks to get her to talk.

But she wouldn’t. She was as stubborn as a mule when it came to that and probably more so, horses being more intelligent and all that. He sighed and, since he was blocked from her thoughts, spoke out aloud: “Let’s make camp outside, yeah? It’s late, and I don’t want to intrude at that hour.”

She didn’t respond but halted and allowed him to dismount. He took care of her and then built the campsite. The conjured fire burnt without smoke, but they would both be grateful for its warmth in the night, and it would keep the nasty creatures of the desert and woodlands away. They were still far away enough for the more desperate ones to get funny ideas. Kirdain sighed. He had eaten and now stared into the fire. He could sense Atela close by but for the moment he didn’t try to talk with her. If she wanted to, she was privy to his thoughts and heart, but the loneliness inside him was too big to be conveyed in any language he could taste on his tongue. Eventually, he found the most comfortable spot of ground inside the tent and fell asleep.

Despite spending the night in silence, something in Kirdain’s dreams had given him strength. Or someone. He clung to that as they approached the main gate.

Kirdain’s attention focused on the guards. Two of them were stationed on either side of the gate — the gate itself was closed. Due to the early hour, he believed. Merchants and farmers and everyone who needed an open gate rather than the small door would only arrive a good time later. The guards wore battered armor: breastplates from iron or steel, gauntlets from leather. All of it looked like it was used often and not cared for enough.

He did not touch their minds and was astonished to notice that their feelings were guarded. By some sort of spell or artifact, he could tell as much. He wondered what called for such no doubt expensive measures. He also wondered if these enchantments had al­ways been there.

“Halt”, one of the guards called. Kirdain stopped himself from looking left and right. The road was empty.

So he halted and grit his teeth.

“State your name and business”, the guard demanded. He looked young but full of himself, dark blond hair and peachy skin but red cheeks that betrayed a habit of his. He looked like every guardsman Kirdain had ever met, but he had an inkling that this youngling could be Melorim’s boy — and hoped that wasn’t true.

The young man stared up into Kirdain’s face and seemed impatient. “You are human, are you not? Can’t you speak?” So much for the reverence of the common folk, he thought and then spoke.

“She is Atela of the Free Folk, and I am Kirdain of the Vandrainor. We are here to speak to your council.” He remembered bursting into laughter when Renor had taught him these words. But he had perfected the act.

He could see an emotion passing over the young man’s face. Too quick to decipher, and before he spoke anew, the other guardsman put his hand down on his comrade’s shoulder. And him, his dark features and bald head, he recognized.

“Tomlen!”, he said and smiled and the guardsman beamed.

“Kirdain, good to see you! Finally back, eh?”

Kirdain nodded.

“Can I go in? I have business with the council and…” and I want to finish it before the crowds gather, he thought.

Tomlen nodded. “Of course! Come by the tavern later, ye? Not every day we see one of you people around.” He opened the door and stepped aside.

Kirdain smiled and made a non-committing gesture while Atela already started walking again. She was tense, he could tell. A few meters into the city, she left the main road and stopped in an alley. He dismounted and drew the hoof boots from his backpack.

Stone streets of all kinds weren’t good for hooves and while most mules and donkeys had horseshoes, it was rare to see horses with metal under their hooves. Most of them would kill any blacksmith who tried that. Besides, the country roads were no issue for them and many cities and city-states had special lanes for Vandrainor anyways. Only those at the outskirts of the continent where focus seldom wandered, hadn’t. And for these times, hoof boots had been invented: constructs from leather, wood, and cloth that enclosed the hoof and protected it from the hard stone surface as well as stray glass shards or similar dangers.

According to Atela, walking in them felt strange and during their apprenticeship, she had had to learn how to walk and gallop in them without endangering herself or Kirdain. But it beat horseshoes and the danger to the hooves without any kind of protection.

When he was finished, he stroked her mane gently, and, to his surprise, she patted him with her nose. He smiled.

He did not mount her again for the rest of the way. Boots or no boots, she needed time to adjust to the new underground and did so best without a human on her back.

Besides, he was here as a criminal. However idiotic the charges were, it fell best to be humble. And the city made that hard enough, without being mounted on an actual horse’s back.

Kirdain hadn’t seen many wonders in life, or many cities for that matter. And not even in his dreams would he think about comparing Agshraf to Nahandrain but when he thought about Ur or even Wreorg, Agshraf paled in comparison. Human architecture differed across the continent and this far down south, the desert architecture with smooth walls, flat or domed roofs, big windows, and either colorful houses or natural sandstone-colored walls were the norm. But Agshraf was not part of the Kingdom of Ur, it was a city-state, however small and insignificant.

The city had been founded by merchants who wanted to establish better trade routes into the nearby mountains. The potential to trade regularly with the elves had out weight cutting family ties and moving here from up north. Ur had given up the patch of infertile land readily enough. Everything went well for a hundred or so years until the elves got bored with humans and their wares. The pioneers had not calculated how long elves lived, and how short-lived their attention was, in comparison. So, after curiosity and novelty had worn off, Agshraf’s decline began.

Eventually, the council decided to hire witches to turn the infertile hostile lands around the city into tree-covered and fertile grounds. Even though the city never really recovered. And a sentiment to Agshraf’s isolated origins, as well as its decline in wealth, were the buildings: Even the finer built ones looked strangely outdated, regardless of the style. An architect from outside would only come here if they were really unlucky and in search of work. So the northern and the southern style lacked finesse and new ideas. Also, because the council liked one of their own to be in charge of city projects and most citizens couldn’t afford a skilled builder from another city-state. Agshraf kept to itself. It always had. Old blood, old ways, old idiots.

And now, in this hour before everybody truly woke up, when the streets were empty, the shopfronts closed, the city looked sad. Like the ghost of a town that once was. It truly felt like walking through a memory.

He didn’t really pay attention to detail; he did not notice any changes to the scenery since the days he had left. He walked through this memory instead of the real city, like a sleepwalker guided by the drumming of old times.

Until he stopped in front of the city hall.

It was a decently tall building, not taller than the walls and not the tallest one around, but it stood in the center of the city and was built out of solid and carved stone, decorated with some local legends and heroes.

It had three levels, and, as he knew, a dungeon beneath. An open stairwell led to the main door made from wood and gold. The city hall was nice. Even in a city like this, some buildings aged like fine wine and that was it, what made the hall stand out.

And the guards: Two in front of the stairwell and another two in front of the door. Their armor was not plain and battered like the ones the guards on the gates had worn. No. The guardians of the city hall wore colorful tunics and polished breastplates. Their boots were made from dark leather, as well as their gloves and the sheaths of their swords were clean and polished. Two of them were women. Who would have thought? Things changed after all. Again, he was approached by a guard but this time by one of the women. She smiled at him, and he thought he knew her. But her name totally escaped him.

“You are Kirdain Shoemaker, aren’t you?”, she asked.

He shrugged. “In a way. I’m certainly Kirdain, yes.”

She nodded. “The city guards said you were coming. And the elders have expected you since the beginning of the year.”

“Well. I’m here now.”

She nodded. “You are allowed to enter the city hall, but your weapons must remain here.” Kirdain tensed. He did not plan to give anyone his sword and daggers. Especially not someone he didn’t trust. He was no idiot. “What about my Companion?”, he asked and padded Atela.

The guardswoman smiled wider. “The honorable Atela is free to choose. She can accompany you, or do as she pleases outside since she is not the one standing trial.”

They knew her name. At least someone did their research.

Atela huffed appreciatively and Kirdain smiled. “I think she would prefer to stay outside.” She huffed again. He caught himself rolling his eyes. They could do that more easily if she would just talk to him. Then again, if she wanted to reduce herself to this, she certainly was his guest. He had no time for that right now.

The guardswoman smiled. “Of course.”

“Can I leave my weapons with her…?”

She hesitated, then nodded. “I think that would be appropriate.”

Kirdain nodded thankfully and placed his swords and daggers into loops that were fastened to her saddle. “You hold onto this for me, will you?”, he asked, and she huffed again.

This time, he did roll his eyes and stepped away from her. Mule.

“I believe in your honor, but you will be searched again inside. If you carry any more weapons, and they are found, you will be exiled from the city.”

He nodded. “I understand.” How many times could they exile him?

The woman smiled and stepped aside. “Good luck”, she said.

The main corridor was cold. And the guardsman who had taken over for the nice woman was silent. He carried a torch and led Kirdain into a tiny room. “You will wait here; someone will come and take care of you when they are ready.” He left him. Without the torch.

“Prick”, Kirdain murmured.

He thought about conjuring up a fire again. It was cold in here, after all. But decided against it. Magic took concentration and for the moment, he was perfectly occupied with keeping the anxiety at bay.

Atela had done that before. Even without their minds touching, just having her close by was a relief.

But now, that she was gone, he felt something missing. Like a house with three instead of four walls, it took more concentration, more willpower to keep his balance. To keep all emotions locked away.

Somehow, he managed not to freak out until the door opened again. Another guard, with a torch, stepped in. Kirdain couldn’t see their face until they moved the torch away from themselves into the room.

“Kirdain Shoemaker?” A male voice asked.

“Yeah”, he said.

“Good. I’ll search you for any weapons you handily forgot to remove from your body, then I’ll bring you to the council.”

Kirdain sighed.

In hindsight, the search wasn’t as unpleasant as he had thought it could be. The guard didn’t overdo it and just used an enchanted device to detect anything metallic or pointy or … Kirdain wasn’t sure how exactly the spell worked.

“Why not simply cast a truth spell on me?”, he asked.

The guard scoffed. “You lot can circumvent them, can’t you?”

“Uh…” Well, yes. Every magic user could learn how to do it, but most wouldn’t bother to learn something like this. He surely hadn’t. And no Vandrainor would even be allowed to learn it, to say the least. And conjuring up something to prevent a truth spell from working sounded difficult. And illegal. Kirdain was pretty sure that, should he ever try something like this, his oath would simply prevent him from succeeding. But obviously, in the years he had been gone, the view of the Vandrainor had changed. He wondered why. Wondered if it was his fault.

The council’s constellation had changed slightly since he had been here last time. There was a new Eldest, unfortunately still someone he knew.

Filop Bookmaker hadn’t been his greatest admirer back in the day, and he had been enough of a pain in the ass as First Morals Enforcer. As Eldest of the Council, he could pose a serious problem. But he also saw a few faces that would have made him smile: Hinala Blacksmith was still a member of the council and though she looked old, she looked healthy and alert. And of course, Ishgol Watchmaker was there. Vigorous as ever.

Both of them nodded slightly in his direction and Kirdain managed a smile. Most of them, he recognized: most of the eleven had already been in power when he left the city, and only looked older. Watch Captain Melorim seemed to have replaced Filop as First Morals Enforcer. Kirdain took care not to linger on Telorim’s face even though Father Shoemaker’s expression was as unreadable as always. He had been ready to face his father here. He had become council member in the year after Kirdain left. Remarkable, given the negative impact Kirdain’s departure must have had on the family’s reputation. But Telorim had worked for years to get to this position and obviously, he was not easily stoppable.

Only one person he did not know: a young woman who had a dark complexion and wore the sigil of the watch that identified her as the Watch Captain.

Filop Bookmaker coughed, and Kirdain shifted his attention towards the old man.

“The council recognizes Kirdain Shoemaker-son, who was sentenced to exile eight years ago”, he said.

Now. Here it finally was. The challenge. In his absence, the council, or the guild, had apparently revoked his status as a journeyman and thus member of the guild. But that was not the important point. The room was silent; all waited for Kirdain. He straightened, eager not to disappoint.

“My name is Kirdain of the Vandrainor, Kirdain Vandrainor if you must hold on to your traditions”, he said calmly.

Hinala smiled at him. She wouldn’t want him to be cowed by old men.

“Well, if you insist”, Filop said.

“I do.”

Silence, again. Kirdain was all too aware that every eye was on him. He could feel them. He could even feel the intensiveness of their stares. All this attention made his skin crawl. These people weren’t his allies. They had exiled him after sentencing him to a probably deadly punishment back then. But he was not the insecure boy they had sent away.

So he stood there; back straight, feet apart, and starred in Filop’s eyes, until the old man finally drew a breath.

“Kirdain Vandrainor, then”, he said.

“That is correct.” A smile flickered across his lips. A small victory. An important victory. Filop did not appear thrown off.

“Kirdain, do you remember your confession?”

Kirdain swallowed. “Yes.”

“And, do you remember the sentence?”

“Yes. Seventy strokes, executed in tens over the course of a few weeks.” His voice did not waver. This was all about strength. A display, nothing more.

“When you left Agshraf, you swore that you would return to submit to this sentence. Do you still submit to this? Does your oath as a Vandrainor still bind you?”

For a second, Kirdain held his breath. Then, he met Filop’s eyes. He knew what the old man wanted. “My oath will bind me, as long as my soul lives”, he said. “But I also have to urge you to reconsider the sentence.”

“What?!” Now, he had finally caught him off guard. And the rest of the council, too, as it seemed. They started to murmur, Kirdain could hear his father’s voice mutter something he did not understand.

Ishgol, finally, was the one who called them back to order. “Siblings!”, he said, using the traditional title. “How about we hear young Kirdain out, eh?” It helped.

Filop still huffed but he nodded. “Explain yourself.”

Kirdain nodded. “I believe the Andrush Vandrainor has sent a message on my behalf to you already”, he said. “But in case it did not arrive in time, they gave me the same message to hand to you, again.”

Filop shook his head. “Nothing arrived here. But why can’t you speak for yourself? You are an adult, and free in the sense of the word, are you not?”

“Yes, I am.”

“So nothing prevents you from speaking here for yourself”, Filop concluded.

Kirdain shook his head. This sort of situation had not been a topic of discussion in rhetoric classes, but he knew enough about the traditions of Agshraf to answer truthfully. He even knew the traditional words because Renor kept mocking him about them.

“I am free as the wind is, in most ways but when it comes to my body and bodily harm, I have to consider the bond I honor with my every bw- breath.”

And this was why he almost failed rhetoric class. He almost cringed; he had to keep going, though, speaking was just a performance.

“And to do just that, it is my duty to ask you to reconsider, and hear me out.” He stopped, regaining his breath and posture. His eyes wandered over the council members; most faces were unreadable. Filop seemed angry, and so seemed Ishgol but Kirdain could only guess, why the watchmaker should be angry at him.

“We will hear you out”, another voice said. The Watch Captain had spoken. Her voice cut through silence and air like obsidian and steel and Kirdain nodded at her.

“Thank you, Captain”, he said.

She nodded her face betraying nothing.

Kirdain noticed some people shooting glances at her, but she stood straight and cold, like a statue, and commanded an aura of her own.

“Eight years ago, you sent away a boy, a sixteen-year-old boy, and told him to not come back for at least seven years otherwise he would be punished with the ultimate penalty. You told him to return, made him give his word so that he could be punished at another time. The boy, overwhelmed, frightened, stupid, agreed. And he did not stop once to consider what you made him do. He trusted in the righteousness of the council. He trusted you. I trusted you.

But you forced the choices of an adult onto a boy. I was sixteen, not even legally of age by your standards. If it wouldn’t have been for my family’s influence, nobody would have named me a journeyman at that age. My skills weren’t appropriate and neither was my eagerness. I was stupid in the same way all young men are stupid. I trusted you. And you betrayed that trust. You made me swear, you let me give you my word, that I would submit to punishment — twice. What would you call an exile if not punishment?”

He waited a beat and saw a few people shift uncomfortably in their seats. Hinala nodded almost unnoticeable. “So you punished me, and now you want to carry out your sentence — a punishment — again. For the same crime.”

This time, he looked at Filop, looked at the whole council.

“Do you want to know what they call this sort of practice in other parts of the continent?” He waited. He could hear someone hold their breath.

“Injustice”, he said.

This time, he could distinguish his father’s words throughout the others. “You forsaken brat, how dare you?!”

Kirdain’s face was a mask. He smiled.

Filop clapped his hands, and silence fell. “You agreed to it, Kirdain. You gave your word not as a boy or a member of the Guild but as Vandrainor. And you said you stand by it.”

Kirdain nodded. “I do. I stand by my word, even though I was not a Vandrainor back then. I am now, but I will not use that power. For I am still human, and our word is our strength. So I will not back down — I only ask that you reconsider, that you see that one punishment befits the crime, and no crime, however big, deserves two punishments.”

“Well, our answer is no!”, Melorim said. He sounded agitated. “We sentenced you, you submitted. No common criminal gets the chance to re-evaluate their case! Why should we treat you differently?”

“Oh, but they do. It’s called an appeal trial, and we do it all the time, Melorim.” Hinala. Her voice was as energetic as always; Kirdain heard every word. Such as everyone else. Someone giggled.

Melorim’s face darkened, and he started to spit an answer, but Filop clapped his hands, again.

“Siblings”, he said, “we are not here to argue against each other. Kirdain, is that all, you have to say for yourself?”

Kirdain drew his breath one last time. He did not feel as if he had done a very good job for himself. “I ask you to reconsider. No harm will come from my order, me or my companion if you don’t. There will be no retribution. But I ask you, I ask you to revisit this sentence and to judge not the man that I am now. But the boy that I was. A young boy tradition forced out of the city for over a month, a boy who was alone, not allowed to be visited — and afraid of a desert storm.”

Guards had let him away to a cell. Ironically the same cell his mother had helped him escape out, back then. He grinned and touched the wall, remembering magic flowing through his veins.

But no one was there to save him this time. He wasn’t even sure if his mother was in town now. She wouldn’t have come to the hearing, either way. Came to think of it, he wasn’t even sure if the hearing had been a public affair. Maybe it hadn’t been, or maybe it just had taken place ridiculously early. But he wasn’t sure what time it was, really. Time was different in winter.

But it didn’t matter. Only the outcome mattered.

So he waited. Waited and conjured a fire. The pale blue flames seemed to mock him and only gave little light, and little warmth. But it was enough. Enough to avoid the water puddle on the ground and the hay. It smelled suspicious, and he wasn’t entirely sure that anyone had changed it since he had been here last.

He started pacing back and forth and tried not to read too much into the fact that they had decided to put him into a cell of all things while they were talking.

Some time into his pacing, he heard footsteps coming down the corridor. Then the sound of keys, and finally, the door opened. Torchlight started to accompany his blue fire, and he saw the face of the Watch Captain. He halted.

“Surprised to see me?”, she asked.

”… yes.”

The torchlight made her skin tone even warmer than it had been before. She had a few scars on the right side of her face and wore her dark hair in braids. Bluish and yellowish light reflected in her irides; making the one warm and the other one cold.

“My name’s Nevara”, she said and stepped closer.

Kirdain noticed that this lady was taller than him by a few palms.

She smiled down at him. “You know, they want to vote on your case, and thus far it seems like an even split. I’ll be the tiebreaker, so why don’t you tell me your side of the story?” Kirdain tried to smile. “What did they tell you?”

She shook her head. “Just tell me, what happened. I don’t believe in rhetoric mind tricks. I want to hear what happened. In your words.”

He nodded. “Alright. So, do you know about the Ritual? The Herd Seeking?”

She hesitated. “Not really, no. I… I know that it’s a big thing around here, but I can’t have access to the secrets just yet. Not before I contributed to the city blood and all that.” Kirdain nodded. Marrying into one of the families who were recognized as “city blood” — basically every family who lived in Agshraf for longer than one generation — was the only way to be a full citizen in the eyes of religion.

“Hmm. Okay. I’m not entirely sure how much I am allowed to reveal, but I’ll tell you what’s important: The Herd Seeking takes place once a year. Usually, a child or teenager goes out to a specific place — somehow like a watchtower — and watches for the horses. We sent that person away the day after the third full moon in the new year, and they come back once they spotted the Herd. Or the day after the sixth full moon.”

“You are telling me that you let a child stay outside for three months?”

“Yes. There are a lot of preparations and protections involved, too, but I can’t go into detail about those. Basically, if you are the child, you go out. You’ll not talk to a single human until you are back.”

“How is it determined, who goes?”

“It’s a lottery and an honor. If the Herd doesn’t come one year, the same person will be sent out the year after that, and after that until…”

”… until they come? Seriously?”

“Yeah.” Said out loud, it sounded stupid. Maybe that was the kind of thing only an outsider could see. Like Nevara, like his mother.

“Uhm… okay. So, you were the lucky person to go out, huh?”

“Yeah. I went out for four seasons. They didn’t arrive here the first three times I went out. Nothing major happened. I tried to bully my best friend into visiting me, but they didn’t give in. I just … it got lonely, out there. Anyway, one month into my fourth season, a great storm hit my position. I had protections for the worst, but the damn thing lasted four days. When I woke up”, he hesitated. “When I woke up, I decided to go home. I was … I was just afraid. It didn’t seem as if the storm had ended just slowed a bit. I only wanted to be home. Safe. Around people. … I hadn’t been scared like this my whole life.”

She shot him a strange glance but didn’t say anything. “I arrived at nightfall, came through one of the smaller gates, and went home. And… the old Captain was — is — friends with my father and … unfortunately, he was there. So I was arrested on charge of treason and brought here.”

“Here?”

“Yes. It’s the same cell. Did you know that?”

She shook her head. “I came here three years ago”, she said. “On behalf of First Enforcer Melorim, actually. But nobody ever talks about you. Ilandi Smith-Child is the one Rider everyone talks about.”

Kirdain grinned. “That’s fair. Better story, better person. Anyway, I was here, … and Atela — my companion, you see — she helped me get out. But we got caught outside the gate and … well sentenced. I mean, I got sentenced. Not her. They sentenced me to seventy strokes, and I agreed to it but since I wasn’t under their jurisdiction strictly speaking anymore… we made a deal.”

“Why did you want to come back?”

He hesitated. “This is my home”, he said. “I want to be able to come back home.”

She nodded, then straightened. “Well, Kirdain Vandrainor. Thank you for telling me your side of everything.”

“You’re welcome”, he said relieved. Telling this was hard.

She turned around once more at the door. “It really is a good story”, she said. “Too bad it isn’t true.”

And just like that, she left. Kirdain stared at the door and cursed.

The hall was silent. He was silent. He stared at the high pillars, took in the colors — the paintings and the map of the continent behind the council’s table. Marble and fire and the ceremonial robes. He tried. He tried desperately not to pay attention. He failed. Ten had already voted. Five in his favor, Hinala and Ishgol, and — surprisingly — his father among them. But maybe an easy way to protect his son was worth something to him, after all. It was certainly more convenient than having a convicted — and most likely dead — criminal in the family.

But five others, Filop and Melorim amongst them, had cast their votes against him. The last person to talk was Nevara. The tiebreaker. What an insight she possessed, it was almost otherworldly. Now, she walked from her place at the left end of the table onto the great marble floor.

Agshraf prided itself to be a Human City State. So it valued speaking above gold or that’s what they said. Humans talked, talked, talked because it was the one thing they had. The only thing they were good at. So even something as private and simple as a vote should be, was accompanied by small speeches. And sometimes these speeches alone could still change the council’s opinion. It was a terrible way to do justice since the convicted did not get another chance to speak. Most educated lawyers would frown not just a bit over such a system. But Agshraf had no lawyers. Only the council.

Nevara looked around the room and turned to face him. She held his gaze. No, not held. She didn’t just hold it. She captured it. He wanted to look the other way, to focus on anything else, or at least pretend to do so. But she commanded attention. His attention. She was the tiebreaker, she held his future. And she did not intend to let that escape his notice. He gave her a crooked smile. He was oh so screwed.

“Siblings”, she began. She addressed the council without looking at them. It was the customary way of delivering these little speeches. “Some of you feel I shouldn’t get a vote in this matter — I am not of city-blood yet, an outsider. And to add further I was not here to witness the many crimes this man has committed.”

She paused.

“But I am part of the city — of body and soul — I breathed among you for long enough. I spoke to you, my honored siblings, and to the man, we are here to judge today. And I formed an opinion, that allows me to cast my vote.”

Someone shuffled uncomfortably and only then did Kirdain realize, that the others had expected her to not vote at all. In that case, the whole debate would start again until someone changed the minds of one person enough, to cast the vote differently.

But it would also set a bad example, he realized. Nevara was still kind of new in the city, and she needed the people to know that she honored her voice. She was human but she also was a stranger. She needed to fight for everything they gave her. And she needed to let them know that she appreciated their trust once she earned it.

“I call upon the Shadow and the Regent to guide my heart and soul, and to bear witness to my thoughts on the matter: I believe that Kirdain Shoemaker-son was a coward, and Kirdain Vandrainor is a liar.” She paused and her dark eyes met his like icicles.

Kirdain flushed.

“But nothing more. So I vote against the strokes. Because neither cowardice nor lying deserves a punishment, that might as well be a death sentence.”

Silence. For half an eternity nothing but silence existed. Kirdain felt a weight drop from his shoulders as Nevara left the floor and returned to her seat at the table. The sound of her chair scratching over the tiles seemed to break the spell. But even then, no one shouted or seemed too upset.

Filop looked as if he had eaten donkey dung, but he cleared his throat and then nodded. “The council has reached a decision”, he said. “You, Kirdain Vandrainor, have served your sentence and are free to roam Agshraf as you please. I declare this meeting closed. The council will convene again tomorrow.”

And just like that, it was over. Kirdain felt numb as he walked out the door. He had been afraid of this moment for years. Whenever he doubted his calling, whenever he questioned Atela’s judgement, this moment had been behind all his fears. When he was failing during his training, even when he was excelling, that shadow had been there. And now it was gone.

It was almost impossible to process. And so he just walked out of the room, through the dark main corridor, and was almost at the end of it, when “Kirdain!” a voice pulled him back. He halted and turned to face a scolding Hinala. “Are you really trying to walk away from me like this?”, she asked.

Kirdain couldn’t help but smile at the old lady.

Hinala was still a tall woman despite her age. She looked at him, and he could see the challenge in her amber eyes but humor in the way her wrinkles deepened around her mouth. Her hair was more gray than blonde these days and bound to a topknot on top of her head, and her clothes still resembled a blacksmith’s apron. It would be an unnecessary fancy apron of course. No blacksmith would wear an apron made from green linen or anything similar. Her apron was of course no real apron but rather a sort of tunic — but the cut still resembled it. She wasn’t a blacksmith by trade anymore, she hadn’t been for years in fact. But she still was the matriarch of one of the most wealthy and influential blacksmith families in town. Of the Blacksmith-family most people would say.

“So?”, she asked. “I’m waiting.”

Kirdain held his hands up apologetically. “I’m sorry Grandma, forgive me.” She nodded and pulled him into a hug. Her arms were slim with age, so was her frame. But hugging her still felt like embracing a pillar: She stood straight and steadfast as if she had been born with wind and dawn, and would still be there when everything he had done, was only ashes and dust.

No one he had ever touched felt like eternity in the way Grandma Blacksmith did.

“Good to see you again, boy”, she said and looked him up and down. “You look well. A bit slim, but that comes with the job, hm?”

“I suppose so”, he said and smiled. She nodded. “You should come home with me, stay with the family”, she said. “You don’t write half as much as Ilandi does, and it feels like we didn’t hear from them at all that past year.”

“I can’t stay. I have…”

“You have time for your family, young man!”, she said.

Kirdain sighed. “I have to talk to Atela first. She needs to agree. And … I can’t stay long. I’m not on leave, strictly speaking. This is … a business visit.”

Hinala made an agreeable gesture. “Alright. Just help me get home, and then you can take care of your business.”

She looked at him with fierce pride. “You know, a lot of people said you wouldn’t make it. I don’t mean as a Rider but in general. Your mother being who she is and all that. And look at you now.”

Kirdain shook his head. “Now, I’ll bring you home, and I’ll come by later”, he said.

He felt his face warming and looked to the ground. He really didn’t like that kind of talk. It didn’t sit right with him — talk about his mother or himself — and he really didn’t know what to say to that.

Hinala was observant enough and just let him guide her home.

The Blacksmith’s home was a nice building from wood and stone: It had two floors, the upper floor was wooden and the first floor was built from stone. It even had a backyard and two adjoining buildings, one left and one right.

It looked a bit like the mansions Kirdain had seen in Nahandrain and other city-states but smaller — more like a home and less like a place you build to make other people uncomfortable.

When they approached the property, Hinala let go of his arm. She walked more sure-footed and turned to him. “Well, I would like to have you here for dinner. I’m sure we could set it up outside so that your companion can be there, too.”

He smiled thankfully at her. “I’ll give my best, Grandma”, he said.

She nodded and then walked into the house.

Kirdain waited for a few seconds after the door closed behind her. Only then did he realize that Ilandi wouldn’t step outside. They weren’t here. And he hadn’t asked about the one person he really wanted to see.

Because he wasn’t sure if he could face her yet.

He turned around and walked away. Just away. He felt people staring at him and conjured an illusion. He was no one; he didn’t want any eyes on him. Not now.

He trusted his bond to pull him close to Atela as quickly as possible and found her near the city stables where children stood around her, asking for permission to stroke her mane or touch her fur. She bowed her head now and then, permitting it to one of them gracefully. Others, she just blew on, and they stepped back. Disappointed. A bunch of parents stood nearby, taking in the disappointed children; waiting for their own children, or just watching in awe.

Kirdain noticed an old man a bit out of the way; he was hunched over an easel and looked as if he was studying Atela’s body and physique. He looked like an artisan but one of the more unfortunate ones: his clothing was ragged and looked a bit too wide for him in general. But the way his hands moved and worked with a chisel of all things, intrigued Kirdain, and he walked closer to him. Taking care not to disturb the man. Wet clay was distributed in a frame that stood on the easel, and the man’s hands edged the forms of Atela’s body into it, with more than just a little skill.

“I can’t capture her movements quite right”, the painter said, “could you help me, Vandrainor?” and Kirdain halted in midstep. “What? I am not blind — and you are not easy to overlook.”

“How do you mean that?”, Kirdain asked, still a bit surprised.

The old man stroked his beard. “You immortals, you are all the same”, he said. “You never stop to think.”

He turned to look at Kirdain. He had a pale face, a crooked nose, and warts. He was small, really small. His eyes had a mirror-like quality and were sapphire blue. No light shimmered inside them. Kirdain was taken aback.

A dwarf.

The dwarf laughed. “Why so shocked, Vandrainor? You have seen people like me before, haven’t you?”

Of course, he had. He knew dwarves. The Order employed a huge number of dwarves. But he hadn’t expected to see one of them here — so far away from Nahandrain, so far away from watchful eyes.

“Oh, you think I’m here to scheme, don’t you?”

“What do you…?” Kirdain asked.

“Your expression”, he said. “But you needn’t fear me, Vandrainor. I am just an artist, I’m just trying to create a picture of your companion.”

Kirdain forced himself to relax. He thought of Tegilbor, Telassi’s assistant and scribe. They trusted him with the most intimate information the Order had, and he was a dwarf, too.

“I’m sorry”, he said and looked away from the dwarf’s unnerving eyes to Atela.

The evening sun made her chestnut fur shimmer rich and full and highlighted the contrast to the white parts of her fur.

“She is a beauty”, the dwarf said. He had turned around again and tried to work. “I only wish I could afford colors to paint her — carvings are good and well but have never been my bread and butter.”

“You were a professional?”, Kirdain asked.

“I am a professional, boy”, the dwarf said. “I just lost my patron.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. What did you lose them too?”

The dwarf shrugged. “Sometimes, it just happens. But he became obsessed with spell casting. Couldn’t find anything worthwhile in my paintings anymore, after he got himself too deep into it.”

Kirdain winced sympathetically. Losing one’s livelihood like this sounded awful. Losing it at all sounded awful.

He shook his head. “How long have you been here?”, he asked.

“Three years now. The city treats me well enough. Of course, I got kicked out of the poorhouses occasionally — whenever they need to make room, really. But sometimes, someone pays me for my art. And I get a free meal almost every day.”

Kirdain nodded. “And what about washing yourself, your clothing?”

The dwarf shook his head. “Sometimes, magic is handy, you know? These cases are among them. Saves me coin.”

Kirdain huffed and eyed the dwarf uncomfortably. “So, you say you are a good painter, yeah?”

“Yes”, the dwarf said.

“How much for a painting?”

The dwarf looked at him, a bright light in his eyes. It looked even worse than the hollow eyes he had looked into, before.

Kirdain tried not to shudder.

In the end, the dwarf didn’t draw Atela. She didn’t want to be painted by someone whose skill she couldn’t judge. Instead, Kirdain told him to capture a view the dwarf liked. He had accompanied him on his supply run and by that probably saved a lot of money. It also had ruined his plan to keep away from the parts of the city he knew well. But either the dwarf at his side or his own reputation had kept the people away from him. Despite him letting go of his illusion. It simply took up too much concentration.

It was a weird sensation. He had known some of these people all his life and now, there was something between them that neither they nor he could make disappear. Because it was not a barrier but simply distance.

It was this sense of distance that made him leave the city after he made arrangements with the dwarf. He needed to be alone, and he needed to speak to Atela. Away from watchful eyes and curious ears, from distracting minds and disturbing people.

They walked a while until they found a spot between the trees they knew all too well. The trees didn’t change at all in that short amount of time. The ground was different. When they had been here last, it had been the early summer. Now, at winter’s edge, the ground was cold and hard, the grass was brownish-green and no flowers sparkled the ground. Atela looked at him with that look. That familiar look that she had had for their whole journey. He couldn’t read it.

“So”, he said and sat across from her on a boulder. It was big enough, so he could look into one of her eyes and didn’t loom over her. It was easier to talk like that.

’So’, she answered. He had missed her voice. The whole ride from Nahandrain to here, she had given him the silent treatment and now, now she finally talked to him again. Hearing her again felt as if his soul had been touched by the sun after a long night in the winter. Her voice though, it had an edge to it. A sharpness that reminded him of frosty snow. She could be cold, just like any other person. He was not forgiven, yet.

He pushed, ever so lightly, at the barrier between them — it held fast enough to not let him in, but he could feel that it wasn’t as thick as before. Thin enough, so they could hear each other — not close enough to touch, let alone become whole again.

’Do you want to… talk?’ He asked.

’Yes’, she said. ‘I didn’t enjoy this either, Kirdain.’

He nodded. ‘I understand, I-’

’No, you don’t. You don’t even know why I am upset with you, do you?’

’Because we are here.’

’Because you were reckless!’ The sheer force in her voice made him pause for a moment. ’You could have died here, Kirdain. Conjuring or not, immortality or not, you could have died. They could have killed you. And for what? For the privilege to walk these nasty streets? For -’

’It’s my home, Atela!’

’You hate it here! You haven’t talked to your family once in all these years and Ilandi is up north with us. So why? Why do this? Why risk your life, you are important, Kirdain!’

He sighed deeply. ‘I don’t know if I can explain it in a way you would understand, Atela’, he said.

’If you can’t do that, then you don’t understand it either. I know what you know, remember?’

’Yes, but it’s not that simple!’ he said.

’Then explain it to me! I placed my trust with you, Kirdain.’

Kirdain sighed. These kinds of conversations were tiring. ‘I know. And I trusted in my abilities. Why couldn’t you trust me, Atela?’

She pawed at the ground. ‘Everyone thought you were reckless, Kirdain. Renor thought you underestimated these counselors and would get yourself killed.’

’Renor is an idiot. He cares but he is an idiot.’

’He is your master!’

’He was my master. And I respect and love him, you know that.’ Kirdain paused. This debate wouldn’t lead them anywhere. They were just running around in circles, chasing after each other. ‘Atela, please. Let me in, and I’m sure we’ll work this out a hundred times faster.’

’I can’t’, she said and now, she sounded hurt. Desperate, even.

’What do you mean, you can’t?’ He asked.

’We are keeping each other out, Kirdain. It’s not only me. You don’t want me near, either.’

He blinked.

’Why is that?’, she asked.

He shook his head. ‘I don’t… I would never…!’

‘But you do’, she said.

Something, the sober pain inside her voice, it made him look. It made him feel. It took him a moment to understand; then he saw it. The barrier between them was a mixture of their emotions, their pain. It was everything they had pushed away. They both had pushed away in order not to feel. He touched it with his mind. Felt his anger, shame, his abandonment, guilt. And other things he had no names for. It hurt. Taking emotions back always hurt. But the barrier got slimmer. With everything, he admitted to himself.

Until he finally felt her. And he felt her fear, her sheer terror at the thought of losing him. Restlessness, rage, helplessness. Anger, pain. Distance. And he took it. And she took it. And he felt her spirit pressing against his, and did the same.

He felt tears burning in his eyes, as she swept over him like a wave over a stone at the beach. Her feelings were everywhere around him. They engulfed each other and became one again. It was like regaining a sense or a limb that had been lost for a while. The world seemed less gray.

Whatever had been, it was in the past. And now it was time to move on.

’Should we stay, till the Herd arrives?’ Atela asked.

Kirdain shrugged. ‘Only when the Andrush Vandrainor orders us to do so. There is no other reason to stay here.’

He could feel her agreement. It was the sweetest feeling in the world.