“Well, that was an enormous waste of an afternoon,” grumbled Daerth, glaring under his hood at the village. “Everyone I spoke to either wanted something before they'd tell me anything, or was too 'busy' to talk at all.”

“I would guess the entire village is cursed,” Raceel added, “except the only sense of the Circle I have felt this entire time is Teru. His gaze is still fixed upon us and his hand is heavy everywhere we go. Perhaps this village was struck down by one of his maddening Dice.”

Metcenzerin narrowed his eyes doubtfully, but didn't argue with Raceel's assessment. Unlike the others (though Kwanai and the Stitchdoctor hadn't bothered saying anything yet, and probably wouldn't), he had news. “They certainly were difficult to talk to, but I was able to get something out of the inn-keeper after keeping at it for a while.”

The looks of surprise were quite gratifying, but Metcenzerin mercifully decided not to keep them in suspense.

“Whatever the villagers say about being isolated, it's obvious they still have been getting the occasional travelers through here, and with prodding the innkeeper remembered some of the last rumors those travelers brought with them. One that I thought out of place among the others, yet relevant now to us, was one of a local nobleman who lost his manor to a single series of very unlucky games of chance. The new owner took up residency immediately, casting out all the staff along with the nobleman's family, and the rumors say that the manor has become home to unspeakable monsters since then. No one goes near it anymore because those who try never come back.”

“You think this has something to do with Teru's Game?” pressed Daerth, and Metcenzerin smiled.

“By my reckoning, according to the timescale the innkeeper gave me, this night of gambling would have happened about three weeks ago. Perhaps, easily perhaps, the same day Teru issued his challenge.”

Raceel and Daerth exchanged thoughtful glances and pondered. Metcenzerin looked to Kwanai for some reaction, but the southerner had the same noncommittal look of dark stoicism he'd been wearing since he first climbed out of that prison wagon, so Metcenzerin's gaze slid past.

And stopped, puzzled, on the Stitchdoctor.

“What do you have there?”

The Stitchdoctor, silent and unassuming while the others talked, raised his masked gaze to meet Metcenzerin's. The small object he had been playing with, turning over and over in his gloved hands, vanished into a clenched fist.

“He did chores while you chattered,” Kwanai said shortly. “She gave him payment.”

The Stitchdoctor looked over at Kwanai and nodded, then opened his hand again. In his palm lay a coin, about two knuckles wide and half a small fingernail thick. Metcenzerin saw something familiar in the engraving in the silver surface and went to pick it up for a closer look.

Then yelped in pain and jumped back, dropping the coin back into the Stitchdoctor's waiting hand.

“Circle take it,” he cursed between clenched teeth, wringing his hand in the air. “What was that?”

The Stitchdoctor tensed, leaning forward slightly as he first examined the coin, then pocketed it. Then, before Metcenzerin could protest, the Stitchdoctor grabbed his hand and twisted in palm-upwards, hunching over it like he was a near-sighted scholar trying to decipher some puzzling ancient text.

“No blood,” he rasped, rather more quickly then they'd ever heard him speak. His wiry fingers tightened further as Metcenzerin tried to yank his hand away. “No burn, and no hurt.” His breath hissed sharply from between hidden teeth, muffled but not fully silenced by his mask. “Strange.”

“Yeah, you are,” Metcenzerin snapped, and jerked his hand out of the cityman's suddenly-loosened grasp. “What was that thing and why did it sting me like a bee in a bad mood?”

The Stitchdoctor slowly raised his head, but whether he was staring at Metcenzerin or something over Metcenzerin's shoulder was unclear. “... Payment.”

“The woman has been watching us.”

All eyes, except the Stitchdoctor's, turned to Kwanai. The southerner met them all one by one, searching for any sign of understanding, then closed his eyes and elaborated with forced patience, “The Cereth-woman. She watches, even now.”

“Only one of you ever even realized I was there. I've been near enough to spit on every one of you at least once today and watched your movement all afternoon, but four of you never noticed what I was doing until he pointed it out with his crazy magic eyes.”

No one spoke immediately, though Kwanai seemed willing, eager in fact, to correct the paladin dressed like a peasant about the nature of his eyes at some later date. From the malicious gleam in them, he wasn't imagining it to be a purely informative exchange.

Eany glared back at him, daring him to do something, then redirected her irritation towards Raceel, Metcenzerin, and Daerth as a group. “Say you won't allow me to join you all you like, but I will be reaching the end of this journey on your heels one way or another. You can accept my offer of help along the way, or you can be stubborn and face it all without me. Your choice, I suppose.”

“You are asking us to break the rules laid down by a god of the Circle,” Raceel insisted, matching her with the same combination of annoyance and anger. “Have you any concept for just how dangerous that is?”

“Of course I do,” she replied sharply. “I'm a full Paladin, verified before my god and acting with his blessing. I can sense the gaze of Teru and the power of his Dice all around us, same as you. But do you really know how to play with Teru? Which god do you serve? Not Iylihe or Aros, Teru's neighbors, for they have no Paladins. Not Cereth, the nearest to Teru in spirit, for there is only one Paladin of Cereth and you are looking at her. So what god is it who gives you such confidence in deciphering the mind of Teru?”

Metcenzerin smiled slightly. “She has a point. Teru is not exactly a stickler for the rules.”

“A team of five, no more or less,” Raceel insisted firmly. “What makes you think there is anything in so straightforward a law that leaves room for interpretation?

“Teru is talking there about the dungeon, the strict progression of the Quest,” Eany replied. “He never said anything about having help getting to the end of the Quest, or about allowing others to follow you after you complete a part of the Quest. What about this do you find so confusing? Just let me tag along, that's all I ask.”

Raceel ignored the last sentence. “The part about risking the wrath of a god who can and will set blood-thirsty rabbits on people who fail his tests.”

“That was in that one room, to keep his very least favourite kinds of people out of his Quest. Look, maybe you don't think you want or need my help, but I need your help.” Eany fully and abruptly switched tactics. “I am a citywoman, out here among stupid backwards edge-of-the-kingdom peasants who can barely wash their own clothes. They certainly can't help me get back to something resembling normal society, but you can. And I, in return, can help you save the Kingdom. Sounds like a win for everyone at the table except the god of gambling himself.”

Metcenzerin was convinced. She could see him weighing the risks against the potential reward, and his smile meant he liked the odds. Dearth kept his opinion to himself and merely looked to Raceel for the black paladin's thoughts. And the other two... totally blank. They might as well have been statues for all the input they were giving to the conversation.

Raceel sized Eany up, carefully considering everything that she had said. Finally, with a grimace and an almost dismissive gesture, he declared, “You won't be much use in peasant attire. Get your armor and come along, if you must. But,” he added more darkly, “if Teru demands a life for this disobedience, know that I will be eager to offer yours.”

Eany kept her retort to herself, content to harbor a private smile at his very obvious Rahenian surety. There was no mistaking it, and she had learned quickly how to handle proud Rahenians, whatever color armor they happened to be wearing at the time.

“If we are going to go investigate this... manor,” said Daerth as soon as Eany was out of sight, “then we will need a better set of directions then 'local'. Did the innkeeper give you anything specific we could use to find this place, 'Zerin?”

Metcenzerin let the nickname slide this time and shrugged lightly. “Not exactly. I don't think he'd ever been there or seen it himself, so he was just repeating what he had heard other people say. I would be willing to bet, however, that the manor of a local lord would be closer to the more densely populated areas of the region, and all the travelers who come through here come from, then return to,” he pointed west, “that way. Further along the overgrown trail.”

“Good enough for a start, I suppose.”

“We could go now,” suggested Raceel, glaring slightly in the direction Eany had gone to get her stuff. “There is nothing about that woman that I trust. Women aren't supposed to be Paladins.”

“Does anyone here actually trust anyone else?” Metcenzerin asked broadly, turning to including the others in the question. The following silence made his point nicely, but Raceel still looked unhappy. “If anything goes wrong, we can always throw her to the wolves, but I think she's right. Teru loves cheaters, even in his own games.”

“But when cheaters get caught,” said Raceel with a dark finality, “they pay for it.”

Dusk fell over the forest early, sunlight touching the top branches but refusing to penetrate the canopy. There was no structure or shelter in sight, no grassy clearing to cushion their sleep, so the group (now six) sat beneath the budding branches of a great red maple to make their camp that night.

Daerth went out, bow in hand, to hunt and lay his snares, but when he returned more then an hour later her brought nothing but the report of a small spring. “There was evidence of animals using it regularly, so I laid a few traps. We should keep our distance tonight, but we can refill our water supply tomorrow before we leave.”

With no lucky, or unlucky, game to cook fresh, the group was forced to get into their Judge-allotted rations again. Hard biscuits, salted dry meat. Eany produced her own food from the pack she wore over her sword, the carefully packed and parseled rations given by the Paladins of Rahena to their own before undertaking a quest.

“I was among them for weeks,” she explained simply when Metcenzerin eyed her significantly more elaborate dinner. “The Second Stallion's party had certain privileges.”

Then, after they had eaten (barely exchanging a word more) and began to spread out in their thin travel blankets, Eany slipped over next to the musician for another quick word.

“You do sing at night, right?”

He looked at her in mild surprise. “Sometimes. How did you know?”

“I heard you, last night. That's how I knew someone new had gotten out of Teru's Dungeon alive; no one else sings like that in these woods.”

So Metcenzerin tuned his lute, played a gentle tune, and quietly sang a song of sleep, of a weary hero of lore lying down to rest in the bosom of his lover, her golden hair his blanket stained red with blood.