The hill Jormand stood atop, overlooking a small town, was turning brown with the autumn chill that was swiftly moving across the land. It really had come upon them all of a sudden, rendering their preparations insufficient not long after they left Maerin. They were moving north, and quickly at that, but it seemed a little early nonetheless. The cold did not really bother him at all, it was hardly the worst he had suffered through and with the help of a coat he borrowed from one of the caravaners it was easily manageable. It did pose a problem for the others of his band however and that was enough to worry Jormand.

They were perhaps halfway through their journey, the cairns that marked the border between the imperial holdings and the vassal lands of the so-called near north were not even a day’s walk behind them, and Jormand could already see the effects of the weather on his companions. Elyas and Gisela dealt with it admirably, as he expected from northern soldiers, but their pace dragged even more than the slow moving house-wagons required and their mood was beginning to worsen. It was worse for Ketrim who was not used to long journeys on foot and even worse for Lana whose exhaustion was clearly evident. She had gone down into the town along with several of the caravaners and Ketrim. They meant to buy some warmer clothing which Jormand thought was a good idea, but he did not know if it would be enough. It would only get colder as the season progressed and they were moving northward, if slowly. It would not get any warmer.

Jormand knew that he was dwelling on problems that did not truly need his attention. The truth was that even now he needed the distraction. It had not been as bad since they had started out with the caravan. Since that dreary day when he had broken down in the back of their little wagon. It felt like longer ago but they had only been travelling with the caravan for a few days now. It was easy to ignore the passage of time on the road. Jormand often found himself falling back into old habits. Truthfully they were a comfort. He did not feel so raw as he had when starting out but he embraced the hours of monotonous plodding without thought still. Allowing himself time to think had already proven the damage it could do. Thinking back to the hours he had spent crying in the wagon brought an unwelcome feeling of shame deep in his mind. Best not to think too much about that either.

As it was, distractions were easy to come by for Jormand. The caravan provided no end of interesting things. Of course, growing up in the northlands, Jormand had seen his fair share of purefolk caravans. He had never traveled with one before however. Sure, they would stop at Derranhall often enough, but there was always a strict divide between the town and the caravan. Caravaners would come in to trade and leave again. They did not stay at the inns, they did not drink and gamble with the locals in the taverns and the ones who did stay in the town after the caravan left did not often talk about it. They were a strange people, strange as southerners for certain. They were comforting too, though, for Jormand. The familiar northern accents had been a pleasant surprise as had their dress, even their dogs. They all dressed sensibly in utilitarian linens and wools, none of the extravagant silk that Jormand was shocked to find he had become accustomed to. They wore some jewelry and only a little makeup —some southern styles were spreading more widely than others— but they felt familiar. They reminded him of home.

Thinking about home was still treacherous territory but unlike other things, it was something he had to confront. Even with their pace slowed by the caravan, they would arrive in Derranhall soon enough. He would not be able to ignore it once he stood between those walls. He had begun the process of remembering. Of excising the memories tarnished by his father. Those he still did not have the strength to face. He was not so excited to return as he had been once but slowly he was building back the resolve to face it. If for no other reason than to present a strong face for his mother when they arrived. It would not be easy to deliver the news.

Jormand sighed heavily and knuckled his back where a persistent soreness had taken root. He would just have to deal with those problems when they came to bear. For the moment, he had other things to attend to.

On the downslope of the hill behind him, the entire caravan was stopped, just out of sight of the town ahead. Jormand gathered that it was common practice for the purefolk, or at least for this group. Some villages and towns, especially southern ones, did not care for them. Jormand did not quite understand why. They had never caused problems in Derranhall. But then, southerners were a strange sort.

Behind the group of wagons somewhere, Elyas and Gisela stood guard as well as Tomas, the caravan’s own guard. He was a capable fighter from what Jormand had seen but it still confused him that they only had one guard. Tomas, like all of the caravaners as far as Jormand could tell, was a talkative man. He had been friendly enough when explaining their duties as well, simple as they were. The caravan rarely ran into any actual danger. Only large groups of brigands would be bold enough to attack such a large group. Usually their job would have consisted of walking very visibly and looking dangerous. Usually, that was, because times had changed apparently. The way Tomas told it, patrols from towns did not range as far as they once did and imperial garrisons were being recalled from where they were stationed. Even in the north, highwaymen and other criminals were becoming more and more frequent a sight. Tomas did not know why but he had been happy to speculate. He had heard of the unrest in Maerin, or rumors of it at least. From what he said, Maerin was in full rebellion, which Jormand knew to be false. Tomas did not have an explanation for why the northern roads were more dangerous however. Locals lords took on the responsibility of keeping roads safe, but they had been slacking and suffering from an apparent lack of soldiers. Tomas and his band were heading far north despite the season only because it was said to be safest in the furthest northern reaches, near Derranhall in fact, which was convenient for Jormand.

Most of the other purefolk had been as friendly as Tomas, although they were a little leary of Jormand. He could not really blame them. With his clothes in the state they were in and the rest of him as well, he had to look horrendous. Hopefully Lana and Ketrim’s foray into the town would help with that. He could use a good bath too, although a stream would do just as well. His nose was healing well at least, and his ribs as well. Both were still purple with bruising but they did not ache unless he touched them. It was a small blessing, but welcome nonetheless.

Jormand had told the others he was going to stand watch although there really was no need. If a group of any real size were on the road, they would be able to spot it easily without the hilltop vantage point. The truth was that Jormand had other reasons for wanting to be alone. It came with the danger of confronting things he did not want to think about, but it had to be done. He was becoming more and more sure of that as time went on.

Looking down the hill to the wagons, he could see the gathered folk talking, laughing. Even Elyas cracked a grin talking to a caravaner girl. Up on his hill, Jormand thought that he should be able to hear them but all there was was the whispering of a persistent wind. The trees on the far side of the town with their bright fall livery hardly shook at all but atop his hill, he could hear nothing else. It was chilly but comforting as autumn winds are, the promise of change and new seasons to come. It would usually have stirred fond memories in Jormand’s mind, and even now the smell of it brought a smile to his face but it reminded him too of what he was running from. He would not be safe until he arrived at Derranhall, nor would the others.

He allowed the wind to invigorate him as he settled himself down onto the browning grass, safely out of view of the caravan below. What he was about to do would take courage that he did not know if he had at present but it needed to be done.

Fishing in his belt pouch, Jormand produced a silver ring with a slightly cloudy white gem at its apex. The ring was a near twin of the one he himself wore. They were both fancifully cast from silver in the shape of a pair of antlers evoking house Derran’s sigil with the stone resting between them. Looking at the pair, Jormand could see the differences that very few others could. His father’s had been the first cast from the mold, Jormand’s was the fourth and the wear was evident in the slightly rougher texture of his as well as the nicks and dents. Those could have come later but Jormand could not remember a time when they hadn’t been there.

He studied his father’s ring intently, unsure of exactly what to do now. He had avoided looking at it or even thinking about it up until this point, always too worried that it might start another episode and now he did not have the rain and wagon to cover it up. Strangely though, as he looked at it now in broad daylight, it seemed little more than a ring. The strong sunlight defeated any that the soulstone gave off, rendering it little more than a rock and even though the polished silver shone admirably, it did not evoke anything in him beyond an appreciation of its craftsmanship.

He gritted his teeth and hunched over to stare harder at the ring. He cupped it in his hands to cast shadow on the stone, letting its minute light shine ever so slightly, anything to make it seem more than just a piece of jewelry. Nothing.

He closed his eyes to construct in his mind an image of the ring on his father’s finger. It was easy enough to see but still he felt nothing. None of the debilitating anguish he had felt in the wagon, not even a tinge.

Growling to himself he smashed the ring to the ground, burying it between his hand and the dying hilltop grass. It was not fair! Each time before when he had thought back on his father, the result had been devastating, rendering him useless for hours! Now, when he finally mustered the strength to confront his father’s death and everything that came with it, he found nothing. It was not fair. Familiar rage clawed its way to prominence in his chest, prompting him to do something. He ground his palm down against the earth, pushing the offending piece of metal and gemstone into the grass. He could feel the prongs poking into his skin, feel them give way eventually and crumple. That felt better. Like he had punished the ring somehow.

He lifted his hand to find the ring pressed into a grass bed that had formed around it, nearly obscuring it entirely. He could just leave it there. No one would notice, no one would know. He nearly did. He nearly stood up and walked away but as he was tensing to stand something stopped him. He could not be sure what, another whisper in the wind or a compulsion from inside himself but something stopped him and prompted him to scoop up the ring again and place it gingerly back into his belt pouch. On his palm the little red dots where the metal had pressed against his skin until it faltered stood out prominently. He closed his hand to hide them as his anger diminished leaving him with nothing but a shadow of shame that seemed a little darker than usual now. Regardless of what kind of man Martim was, the ring was the last Jormand had—the last anyone had—of him. It was Jormand’s duty to guard it, no matter what he wanted.

Then he stood, feeling strangely tired. Another familiar feeling that he associated with a long day spent training or a particularly difficult round in the fighting ring. He shook his head solemnly. It was only his still healing injuries sapping his strength. He had not been sleeping well, even with the comfortable amenities offered by the caravan’s wagons. He thought nothing more of it. A soldier was used to being tired. Jormand had learned to deal with it long since.

The wind was even stronger as he walked back down the hill. It tugged at his coat and loose trousers as if it were trying to drag him back up the hill although the trees still seemed untouched by it. A storm was on the way.

As he ambled down the hill, Jormand’s head was still full of thoughts of his father. Of the man who had simultaneously been caregiver and tormentor, two aspects that seemed so intertwined even though Jormand knew they should not be. His head was in the clouds and so, as he walked down the uneven slope, he missed a hole burrowed by some creature and planted his toe mid stride into it, pitching him forward down the grassy slope.

Jormands arms reacted with the speed of a weary man. If not for the forceful wind slowing his fall slightly, he would have careened down the remainder of the hill and into the wagon below most likely. As it was, he stumbled and managed to regain his footing until the end of the slope, though he had to run and stop jarringly against the side of the wagon below. He groaned at the painful impact to his tender ribs. It might have even been better to fall.

***

Lana had expected the town to be much more similar to the city that she was familiar with than it turned out to be. The streets were all nearly empty with only a few people, all wearing odd, flowing clothing, and an occasional mule or donkey pulling a cart. Even though the streets themselves were narrow, they seemed too wide for the pitiful amount of traffic that there was. The houses were that way too. They took up too much room. The vast majority were only a single story tall but they were long. They were all built in similar styles with stone foundations and wooden structures, some covered in earth-toned plaster. Many had thatch roofs supported by a shallow peak that covered the entire house and all except for the tallest were shorter than the town walls.

Those were another thing that struck Lana as odd. The walls, if they could even be called that, were made almost entirely of wood except for the stone foundation that at its highest rose only to her shoulder, never higher. She did not know personally what it was that city walls were meant to protect from but these couldn’t do it, could they? The walls around Maerin were so tall, so thick. Lana had heard stories that there were tunnels inside of them. These ones were only about as thick as one man, with a narrow little balcony built on the inside for people to walk on.

Of course there wasn’t anyone up there now save for one sentry by the gate who seemed to not really be paying attention. He had waved Lana and her group through without so much as a second glance. The sentries she had seen by Maerin’s gates had always given her a harsh stare and she had never even tried to leave. Well, not until recently.

There were other oddities about the town too. It was called Torrol Market she had gathered but so far as she had seen, there wasn’t much of a market to speak of. They had passed through a square at one point with a few stalls that Lana had not remarked on. It was rather small by her estimation. There was a simple fountain in the middle where people in odd, loose clothing filled buckets with water and a few children splashed eachother even though it was beginning to get colder. Lana was starting to think that that might have been the market after all. They hadn’t passed anything else resembling one since then.

Lana, Ketrim, and the others had gone into the town with the express purpose of finding some clothing more appropriate for the quickly cooling temperatures. The trouble was, the caravaners who came with them did not seem to have any idea of where to find it and were resistant to asking the locals. Indeed, the people they passed in the streets kept their distance and looked askance at Lana’s group for no reason that she could tell.

The caravaners walked tall and proud, as did Ketrim, who drew most of the looks. It was like they did not notice the people at all. Lana started trailing after them a little, still following but allowing those who looked to think that she wasn’t with them. Maybe. Less people looked at her, but people never looked at her much to begin with.

The caravaners who had come with Lana into the town were among the more diplomatic ones, or so they claimed. They all seemed friendly enough when in their camp or on the road but as soon as they walked through the town gates, they became entirely different people. They had been chatting and laughing on the approach to Torrol Market, but now there was no chatter. It was as if they had been infected with the same suspicion as the locals upon entry.

Lana tried to ignore it. Even though they were acting pompous, they did not seem to expect trouble. So she scurried after then, only a little bitter than they did not seem to even notice her lagging.

Their walk through the town eventually led them back to that first square. It was the only one that could be called a square really. There had been intersections of small streets where some people gathered elsewhere in the town, but nothing large enough to host a market. Lana had been right. For some reason, she felt a swelling of pride at that.

Along the side of the square were a few permanent storefronts. Some of the few buildings with more than a single floor. One of the caravaners, Lyra, told Lana that the upper floors would be where the shopkeep and their family lived. The idea made sense. In Maerin there were often shops on the lower levels of tenements and the owner often lived in the same building. What was more interesting about the buildings were their colors.

There was little to no variation in architecture in Maerin. Lana had learned from Galier that it was considered to be dishonorable boasting to display one’s wealth outside. That mindset permeated the city, even to its lowest levels so each building was made of the same plain stone, the only changes being the occasional wooden support beams.

Here however, it was entirely different. Each house was made nearly entirely of wood, some did not even have stone foundations! Their roofs were sloped and covered in bound thatch, a bright yellow-brown against the deep color of the timbers. The walls were even more eye-opening though. Many, though not all, were covered in plaster from a reddish-brown color to pale yellow, positively vibrant compared to the unadulterated stone of Maerin. And some houses, especially those buildings by the square were decorated with paint!

The shop they ended up entering, finally, bore a thick green stripe going around the entire building, offsetting the pale orange of its plaster in a mesmerizing display. There were plants too, among the buildings. Even the windows were decorated with hanging beds, although the plants within were drooping and brown now with few exceptions.

The interior of the shop was odd too. In a word it was plain. There were wooden forms displaying a few garments and shelves where others were stored mostly out of sight but there was little else. The floor was the same stone of the foundation, polished from use not from effort. The one counter behind which the tailor stood was made of unadorned wood and was splintered on one corner. The ceiling was low and the beams were unhidden. Even the tailor himself wore plain clothes, nothing to show off his craftsmanship but unlike the people outside, he greeted them with a friendly smile.

Their business was quick and they left soon after, arms laden with more varieties of clothing than Lana knew uses for. The caravners seemed as baffled as she but Ketrim had insisted and it was his coin to spend. Lana supposed she should be grateful, after all, he had just bought her an entirely new wardrobe, but he did it with such condescension that she could bring herself to do no more than nod politely when he offered her the tied bundle of cloth that was hers now. She didn’t even know what it contained. While Ketrim negotiated with the tailor, Lana had been relegated to the back of their group, behind a wall of taller people. She contented herself to make a face once his back was turned but nothing more.

They exited the shop, each carrying a bundle much like Lana’s. The caravaners had made a few purchases of their own on Ketrim’s coin, but the vast majority of what they carried was destined for Jormand, Elyas, Gisela, or Ketrim himself. Lana did not miss that he was the only one not burdened as they left.

The hostile looks seemed more pointed now. People stepped to the sides of the streets to watch as their group passed. Maybe Lana was only paying them more attention now but she didn’t think so. She caught more than one of the townsfolk sneering when they thought no one was looking but none stopped them.

Lana was beginning to breathe easier when the gates loomed large ahead of them. Once outside of the town there would be no more locals and lana could escape from those accusing stares. Except… Why were the gates closed? They hadn’t been before…

On either side of the gates stood a small contingent of guards. Only a few on each side, barely outnumbering Lana’s own party, but they were armed with long spears and strange circular wooden shields and although they wore little armor, their spear points gleamed with a fresh edge.

Ketrim halted their party with a raised hand. Everyone obeyed without complaint. The caravaners were probably as anxious as Lana was. She had begun to sweat despite the cool weather and every instinct she had was urging her to run. She had been on this end of a guard’s spear enough times to know what happened next. Ketrim, it seemed, did not have the same experience.

He strode forward ahead of the party looking as if he were going for a pleasant stroll. Well, maybe not pleasant with that frown on his face, but he looked entirely unconcerned. He picked out the leader of the guards right away even though there was nothing to distinguish her from the others that Lana could see. Ketrim chose confidently though and walked right up to her, his chest only a hand’s breadth from her spear.

“What is the meaning of this?” He demanded in that voice all nobles used. All haughty arrogance and no room for discussion. “Why are the gates closed?”

The leader of the guards licked her lips before responding. She looked nervous even though she was the one with the spear. “There are fugitives in the town m’lord…” She said slowly. She didn’t want to come out and say it apparently but Lana knew she was referring to them. What were the chances there were other fugitives in such a place?

“Is that so?” Ketrim replied, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she was hunting him. “Well, in that case, it's a good thing that the rest of my soldiers will be here shortly. I assure you that they’ll help with your search. Especially since it seems your imperial garrison has other matters to attend to.”

Lana gaped, going as wide-eyed as the guard. What other soldiers? There was only Gisela and Elyas, Jormand too but he was injured. Was he bluffing? Right now, with a spear levelled at his chest?

The guardswoman was just as perplexed. She didn’t say anything for a moment but Lana could see a sheen of perspiration on what little of her face showed through the battered bronze helmet she wore.

Ketrim waited patiently, standing casually and seemingly expecting a reply.

“Of-of course we’d appreciate their help…” The guardswoman looked to her sides at her compatriots who all looked just as rattled as she, shifting in their boots and clearly conscious of their shoddy armament. “But I’m sure we’ll do fine without them m’lord, thank you.” She waved to her squad and shouted. “Open the gates!” Turning back to Ketrim, she bowed awkwardly and said in a fearful voice. “You’re free to go m’lord…” She did not look up until Ketrim had passed her by and then she slunk back to the side of the street to blend in with the rest of the crowd.

Lana stared in disbelief for a moment as the gates swung open under the power of a handful of fearful guards. She picked up her pace and hurried through regardless of surprise, relieved to have gotten out unscathed. The caravaners trotted out beside her to regroup with Ketrim when was standing out in the middle of the road looking just as imperious and smug as he had with the guards. This time Lana did not mind so much.

“You handled that well.” One of the caravaners, Lyra, said to him as they hurried down the road back towards the stopped caravan.

“Most common people respond to authority.” He said simply in response. Lyra eyed him judgmentally at that but he did not seem to notice.

Lana rankled at the comment too but for once she was willing to put her annoyance with Ketrim aside. Regardless of the manner in which he did it, he had most certainly saved them all. She did however notice that even he picked up his pace heading back to the caravan. He was not nearly as relaxed as he wanted people to think.