That evening, as the sun dipped behind the mountains to the west of the Neeft, Cadryn huddled against the ever-present winds in the shadow of the Citadel’s upper tower. All around him the lower gardens, so named for their position relative to the hanging Sky Gardens that crawled over the spires above, wavered in the breeze. The smells of summer flowers, and pungent sap, filled the air. He’d seen Gita about, hunting smaller creatures for sport.

The spire base he leaned against was one of three that emerged from the upper rooftop of the Citadel, and ascended through the lower gardens. One contained no rooms, and formed the core of the sky gardens before growing barren at its apex, strange broken things seemed to hang from it at odd angles. The second was a celestial observatory, and a library, according to Korbinian. Which left only the spire at his back, and the Beacon at its peak.

Opposite him, in the heart of the lower gardens, emerged the remnants of a tower much older than the Citadel beneath him. The edifice had been built by one of the great mages of the Second Time, Gleam Sigh the Weary, as his final respite. Now, only the Sleeping Chambers of his arcane fortress remained intact, everything else having fallen into disrepair.

It was in these lightless chambers the Night Shift slept away the day. The thought of it left Cadryn jittery, but Sefton had advised him that it was perfectly safe. Still, he much desired to never be assigned to the Night Shift, and find out himself. Presently a slash of light against the darkening background indicated the emergence of their opposites from the base of the Respite.

Only one of them made their way in his direction, a small orb of sunlight dancing above her robed head. Mareth the Meek wore white robes, edged in yellow, and they seemed almost too big for her, like she’d borrowed them from an older sister.

As she drew close, Cadryn coughed to alert her of his presence. Mareth started, her hood falling back, the wind caught the coil of waist-length black hair and whipped it out behind her. Pale eyes flashed in the arcane light above a tanned face.

“Who goes there?” Mareth demanded, knuckles popping as her hand contorted into and warding gesture.

“Hold,” Cadryn said, raising his hands, “I’m the new Keeper from the Day Shift, Cadryn.”

“Ahh, yes.” Mareth said, but her voice sounded unsure, still, she lowered her hand, and Cadryn caught a glimpse of burn scars. “What business do you have with me, Cadryn of the Day?”

“Sil suggested—“

“Silence,” Mareth correct, “Deafening. You would do well to not forget that they forsake their human names for poetic references to the unnatural . . . odd folk, the Assemblage.”

“Right,” Cadryn said, feeling Mareth was the odd one in this moment, “Silence, well, she suggested I ask you to talk to Takis the Grim about whatever he’s having Karl pass us by to deliver.”

Mareth’s eyes widened, “Takis? Why would I risk an encounter with him?” she asked, stepping by Cadryn and starting up the steps at a brisk clip. Pausing she glanced back, “Come along then, if you’re going to talk to me, I have a duty to perform before my . . . assigned task of the evening.”

Cadryn followed her into the spiraling stairway, and as they moved, the swaying light above her staff cast crazed shadows at the alcoves and empty rooms of the spire. They walked, the only sound their boots on the stairs, for several minutes before he realized she was not going to continue the conversation.

“This place is strange,” he offered, and was shocked to hear a girlish laugh escape his guide.

“You are strange, Cadryn, to make such an obvious observation. The Neeft is ancient, construction over destruction, over construction . . . on and on, for thousands of years. If you stay with us for long enough, you’ll come to know her history. This spire, for instance, was built solely for the Beacon at its apex, by a mad mage in the fifth century of the Third Times.”

“I thought the Citadel below us was only built in the past few centuries?”

“Six, and yes, it was. But all of that was built around what was already there. You see, the past is ever a part of the present, Cadryn of the Day.”

Cadryn looked down the empty center of the spire, and seeing only yawning darkness, felt queasy.

“Are you afraid of the dark?” Mareth asked.

“No,” he said, “I’m not a child.”

“I am,” Mareth replied, then added, “Afraid of the dark that is, not a child.”

Cadryn looked more closely at Mareth, found he had trouble reconciling her words with her appearance, she looked younger than he was. “Perhaps they are wiser than most give them credit.”

“Wisdom seldom requires learning to be of value, or it would be merely another kind of intelligence.” Mareth replied, and she stopped climbing, as if remembering something from her distant past. “‘Personal experiences are the only kind of history anyone trusts, because they’ve felt its fangs upon their skin.’”

“Who told you that?” Cadryn asked.

“My Master, the day he died.” Mareth answered, and ascending the last landing, pushed inward the great doors of the Beacon chamber.

Cadryn followed, and felt a charge of energy run over his skin as he crossed the threshold. The room was huge, twice the size of drinking hall of Amber’s Toast, and as tall as the Tavern itself. Every wall and celling was a window of thick crystal, the air was stuffy and smelled of burnt dust.

With the ease of routine, Mareth spoke the words of power that awoke the rituals worked into the stone and glass, and with stamp of her staff at the center of the chamber, the small sun above her sired a twin, which quickly drifted into the center of the space.

“Come along,” she said, hastening back, past him, “unless you want to burn.”

Cadryn helped her close the doors, saw a small plate of etched steel. In Provalian it read ‘Candelaria’s Radiance’ with instructions on how, and when to activate the ritual. He snorted. “Candelaria?”

“A poor translation,” Mareth said dismissively. “Encara assures me that the Imperial Historians are just being lazy with this place, due to its isolation and ‘relative insignificance’, something that annoys her to no end.”

“I’m sure,” Cadryn said, “now that that’s done thought, would you consider helping me with Takis?”

Mareth stopped descending the stairs, “actually, this other task I have from Sefton, for tonight. I’d . . . I’d rather not do it. It’s in the Underground Cells.”

“You mean the store chambers?”

Mareth smirked, “they weren’t always that, anyway. He wants me to find a missing chest of supplies. If you do it for me, I’ll see what I can do about talking to Takis for you. Deal?”

Cadryn could feel the heat of the Beacon swelling above and behind him, and looking over his shoulder saw the doors begin to glow red.

Mareth continued to block the stairs down, an eager look on her face.

“Of course, fair is fair, right?” he said.

“Right,” Mareth said, and led the way back down the stairs. “And the darkness is best avoided,” she added, in a whisper.