The birds open their wings to fly and close them when landing. But still, they have to eat. They flew from Northwind almost for a hundred years. Now the pair of knights walked its stone aisles to the common hall. The hall is as crowded as always but not too crowded for the gloomy tall ceilings, and not too loud for the black-grey stone walls with banners hung. Both sat on the end-corner of the long wooden benches. There's a slice of ham, a small bowl of mutton soup, brown rye bread, peas and mashed taters for every man, and it's not an exception for the two although there are other options like chicken. Sir Tyler is more than kind to give them a small tun of aged summer-wine and not brown-ale. This wine is one of a kind, Edmund thought. There was neither stamp nor engraving of the winemaker. A good oak barrel will hold the wine like forever. Yet this barrel smells odd to the Keeper. Not good enough to be served for the Old Jack, even more, Earl of Novus. "While it's still wine," the man said. "This one smells musty," Edmund complained while he sniffed the barrel. It was the scent of dry toasted oak and linseed which may be of Durk or Savau. There was also a faint scent of honey, fruits of summer, and strangely, spices and oil-like scent. "No damage at the lid, bilge, in-betweens and, bunghole," Lyle said. He gave a touch to the staves. "But it's moist." A small barrel needs at most, a year or two to give a body of flavour to the wine. After that, the ageing process is never too long, for both red and wine, inside a bottle. It is only thinkable to the Keepers that the wine might go bad should it seeps from the staves, or improperly stored. And since Sir Tyler is patient and careful, the fault should be either at whoever is stupid enough to fill in the wine without water-soaking the barrel before ageing, or the coopers who actually crafted a defect work. Or not telling the winemaker to soak the barrel first, when the winemaker thought it wasn't necessary. "Look at my fingers," Lyle muttered. He wiped the cask with his index finger, leaving wet white crumbs. Edmund sniffed it. "It's oily but," Edmund pondered. "Wax?" "Think so." "So... we open this now?" Edmund asked. Once the squire saw a winemaker waxing his barrels as it can prevent the wine from seeping out. "While it's still wine." Nevertheless, it was not a good sign while it can be anything. But Lyle had a better idea. He called, "Joey." "Who the hell is Joey?" Edmund stunned in his seat. "Yessir?" a voice of youth came from his behind. A young lad stood behind Edmund and opened his ringmail hood. Joey was a poor boy when his house 'accidentally' burned down. He had a permanent burnt on one side of his scalp. His wood-brown hair never grows back on that spot. Like many of the soldiers of Northfrey, he wandered by the streets. A boy that was only looking for stable food and bed. And in this afternoon, his captain is calling for him. A good lad, Lyle thought about him. "Can you tell us what kind of drink is this?" Lyle tempted him as he handed a mug to him. The young lad didn't hesitate to take the mug. "Don't spill," Edmund commanded as Lyle opened the bunghole. The red wine bubbled as it filled the mug, leaving traces of sweet-sour-fruity scent. Joey took a sip and gulped the wine in a single go. And what his tongue tastes are the pleasure that was like of a woman. A taste of finer things flushed down to his throat. "Tell us what is it," Lyle's voice brought him back. "Wine, sir," he answered obediently. He smiled. And he took another sip. "I never drink wine this good. " Looking at the happy lad, Lyle glanced at Edmund before he ordered the boy to help himself for the second time. "Be a good lad and drink quietly in the corner." Joey pretty much enjoyed the wine. He went along and asked no questions. Both Lyle and Edmund laughed at that. And then it was the time for dark discussions. Not only in one table, but on every table in the hall. "I don't know if he will piss himself or not should the barbarians came down," Lyle told Edmund. His words drowned. And if you keep your ears clean, and sharpen your hearing, you will be able to hear everything as some of the men half-shouted when talking. The talk of plundered crops came from the southern-most table. Three men who ate chicken across them talked of a digestive disease outbreak. And most of the men who just returned from an escort mission swore of luxuries being transported under heavy guard. "Nobles have it by their way," they said. It's also the same when a merchant asked the same. No one complained further as long as they get their payment. No tales of battles, bedding, or hunt. The real world doesn't work like that. Chivalry is dead when men let go of their honour. It's something else when people gladly opened their mouth when eating. What Lyle saw is foot soldiers, pikemen, and lansquenets, archers and crossbowmen, talking with their own voices and no restraint. Men at duty will put aside almost everything for gold. They even fake their own voice. An additional report, Lyle thought. But what comes in priority is what his friend should say to him. "What is it?" Lyle said brusquely. He folded his hands. "Say it." "Nothing," Edmund replied. But below the table, his hand reached his friend's. A letter with the seal of Els, flower-crowned lion on blue wax. "It's just my lady." Lyle observed the almost-dry letter and put it inside the gap of his gloves. "You want to get a good hold on that," Edmund whispered as he took another sip of wine. "My lady gave her regards to the Old Man." "I certainly accept," Lyle said the words. And by those words, the fate of Fort Northwind is sealed. "Take care, brother," Edmund put his hand on Lyle's shoulder. Edmund stood, and stuffed the rye bread, ham, and mutton in his mouth. He left. His business is done here, Lyle said to himself. I need to pray, Lyle told himself again. And with that, finished his meal, and stood. He sauntered to the inner sanctum of the keep. Just by the window, he saw a dove flew to the east with letters tied to its feet. And just like a bird released from its cage, the dove flew away.

The smell of incense and wax is strong with a tinge of leather. As Lyle walked the giant double door, he found the friar seated on one of the long benches. Just by the stone pillars is a small elevated platform which held the altar for sermons, and the praying stone-altar. To his eyes, both altars are more than solemn, but he wouldn't describe the place as sacred as only a few men hold to their faith. And the friar is amongst the rarest. "Is there anything I can help you with, my brother?" the friar stood and said to his visitor. Lyle uttered darkly, "Enlightenment to reveal dark sayings." "Very well," the friar replied. "Follow me." The steps of the friar led them both to the innermost sanctum of the chapel, the upstairs. The ladder is well hidden as it was narrow behind the stone walls. They entered the room above the temple after a hard turn. The friar sat on the manuscript desk. Above was volumes of ancient tomes and manuscripts which manually copied by hands, carefully sheltered from the outside world. Quills of any size lined in a small glass display aside bottles of pitch-black ink. This place is a workshop for the friar. Silently the friar reached out his hand. Without being asked, Lyle put the letter to the friar's hand. The crest of Els dully shined upon candlelights. "The blue wax seal of Els. Unbroken," the friar obediently said. He opened the letter with a letter opener. It was words that decided everything. And the eyes of the friar revealed the truth.