Once the last farm is behind them and they hadn’t seen another for five minutes of hard riding, Leah slows Beeswax to a walk. The two women dismount, find a stream, and immediately remove their clothing and wash down with the soap from the stables – saddle soap, and not designed for human use, Leah realises, judging from how oily she feels after even a very brief wash. Neither is shy around the other, and though they remain silent there is a comfort to it.

Solace seems to be celebrating her cleanliness, grinning widely and she lathers up her hands and scrubs ruthlessly at her feet, then splashes handfuls of water over her head, working it into her hair. Leah hesitates to use such a greasy soap on her hair, and decides that water is good enough now. The stream is icy-cold, with Jack-in-the-pulpits along the banks and the stubby beginnings of cattails poking up through the shallows.

Cattails.

“Where will you go?” Leah asks.

Solace lifts her hair in a bushy ball and scrubs at the back of her neck. “For now, I’m happy to spend the rest of my life washing clean of that place.”

“It wasn’t the first prison you’d been in, you said?”

“What can I say, I have an eye for trouble. I used to have companions who could break me out or bribe the guards, but lately I’ve been on my own. Never had to crawl out through an offal slough before, though.” She smiles, with what Leah thinks may be pride and may be self-deprecating humour.

“Where should I leave you?”

Solace looks up at that. “Going so soon?”

“I need to get as far away as possible. Iris will only give us until the morning to get away, so we need a good head start.”

“Will she?”

“What do you mean?”

Solace wrings out her hair. “The stories say that she’s ruthless, but protective. That her entire attitude is one of anger and loyalty. Won’t she do the lawful thing, and tell the guards right away?”

Leah shrugs. “I didn’t hear any horns sounding, did you?”

Solace pauses, and tilts her head with an acquiescing smile.

“Besides, she is very loyal,” Leah says, wiping the water off her face. “To me.”

“How’s that?”

Leah sighs. “She believes, or at least did at one point, that she was responsible for leaving me behind.”

Solace gives Leah a look, interested but also sympathetic. “Is she?”

“She made a hard choice. Now that she has that choice once again, to doom me or save me, I think she just might feel guilty enough to give me a chance, even if it goes against her conscience.”

“I hope to the Gods that you’re right.”

“Then let’s get going.” Leah stands up out of the water, and shakes herself dry. Solace uses the guard’s cape to dry off, then balls it up and throws it out into the woods, along with the armour.

“That won’t leave a pretty obvious trail?” Leah asks uncertainly.

“Only if we decide to keep heading west.” Solace dresses in a set of long white and blue robes, hardy but beautiful. At Leah’s extended silence, Solace turns to her in surprise. “Why in sanity would you? You know what’s out there!”

“Large empty spaces, according to you. And pretty flowers.” Leah mounts up again, and holds a hand out for Solace.

Solace looks at the hand, thoughtfully. “You know, our chances are better if we split up.”

Leah pauses. “Odd way of saying goodbye.”

“I’d’ve said goodbye properly after you’d agreed with me.”

“And if I didn’t agree?”

Solace grins, and holds a hand up in a wave. “Be safe, Leah. And get well.”

“Thank you. I hope you find interesting stories to tell.”

Leah begins to ride off, and Solace calls out after her. “And if you find a way home…stay a little longer anyway, and tell me how it all went down.”

Leah raises a hand, then starts riding off down the path, heading west.

*

Near sunrise she gets down, finds a soft patch of needles under some pines, and lets Beeswax lay down to rest, pulling the sweaty blanket off for her own use. The grateful horse lies down immediately, and Leah curls up next to her for some warmth and some sleep. The pine scent is immeasurably better than the woodchips, but the texture is distressingly similar. Sleep does not come easily.

Cattails.

She hadn’t realised she knew what they looked like, before they reached full size and had bloomed. Hotdog grass, she’d called them as a kid. Nature’s pogos. But the moment she’d seen the little whorls sticking out of the mud – broad, thick blades reaching straight up – she’d known.

Cattails.

She is nowhere near convinced she is making the right decision, but as Solace had said, she needed to work to find a way to get home. Clearly it isn’t going to just happen spontaneously, and there’s only one person alive who has any possibility of understanding how I got here.

Leah sleeps past sunrise. Every few minutes she wakes, listens to the birds, hears no echoing of horns of hoof beats in pursuit, and drifts back off. Finally, it is Beeswax standing up to go sniff at the grain bags that forces her to awaken.

“Greedy cow,” she mumbles, opening one bag and letting the horse eat – messily – directly from it. “You’re lucky, you know, that I have no idea how much to feed a horse. I’ll just let you eat until you stop, how’s that sound?” She scratches Beeswax’s neck, untangling her mane where a few strands had gotten messy, and wishing she’d thought to bring a brush.

No, the soap and weapons were more important, she decides, checking her bags to make sure she still has everything. Doing so, however, prompts her to think of what she left behind.

The diary, with some incriminating notes. The box of period stuff – well, at least that I have a timer for when I need to find a replacement. No food or water for me, oh well. No fire-starter. No change of clothes.

Beeswax nudges the bag with her nose, trying to get to the very bottom, then begins chewing on the bag.

“Oh, no, honey, I don’t think you’re supposed to do that…” Leah rushes over and tries to pry it away, having a brief tug-of-war before finally getting it back. Beeswax looks hungry still, and Leah leads her over to a grassy patch to browse. Beeswax looks at her and nudges her chest; Leah ties her loosely to a fallen tree and stands expectantly until Beeswax gives in and starts eating.

She wanders around, never letting Beeswax out of her sight, trying to find a water source. After fifteen minutes she has found nothing, so she doubles back and mounts up.

The forest is beautiful in spring, she must admit. There is a speckled fuzz of green in the high canopy, and a mat of tiny white and pink flowers covering the ground. The road through the forest is barely more than a trail, but wide enough for a wagon. The grasses and ferns haven’t reached a height where they could slow her progress, but the trail looks abandoned enough that it probably becomes near-invisible during summer.

She rides west, with no memory of the landmarks of her first journey in this world, when the five took her away from Seffon’s keep and back towards Valerin. She has to hope that this is the way.

By noon she reaches a narrow stream, barely more than a trickle, and she follows it on foot over rocky ground to where it joins a proper creek. She drinks her fill, washes her hands and face, and finds a smoother path to lead Beeswax down for her drink. Once there, the horse takes a few sips but refuses more.

“Come on honey, we might not find more water until tomorrow; I have no idea what the environment is like here.”

Beeswax stares at her with bright eyes, and begins to walk back up to the road.

“Fine…” Leah sighs affectionately, and resumes her trip.

They spend most of their time walking, with short bursts of a trot over clearer patches of ground where Leah is more confident of their footing. Not long into it she begins to regret leaving behind the saddle.

By afternoon she finds the first hint that she is on the right track: a broken barrel, rusted iron bands holding splintered wood. It lies on the side of the road, discarded by some previous traveller, but at least it proves that some sort of trade occurs along this path, implying that there is a trade destination at the end of it – a place with people, where she can ask for directions to the keep, if not the keep itself.

They walk on, then trot on as the road becomes consistently smoother. Beeswax stops suddenly only once, and that to dart off to the side where a spring is bubbling up. She drinks, emptying the basin and waiting for it to refill before drinking again, and after a few minutes of this continues on her way. Through it all, Leah lets her have her freedom, grateful for the brief lack of jostling.

By evening, Leah is beginning to wonder if she mistook the barrel for a sign. Maybe it was just old garbage, forgotten. Doubt creeps in, as the forest begins to grow thinner. She can’t remember this from the first time.

No, wait; I was unconscious the first time. I’d fainted, because I’d just watched Iris turn a man’s head to jelly.

She pulls on the reins to stop Beeswax.

I’m insane, aren’t I? Why did I choose this route? I can’t do this.

She clicks her tongue and Beeswax starts back up again, though a little more slowly. The mare is getting tired, Leah thinks. So is she.

The last trees stop suddenly. The break is in no way natural. Leah sees a few stumps left in the ground, but most have been burnt, leaving little black circles in the wildflowers. Here the undergrowth gets taller, and wilder. Looking ahead, she can see the dark outline of a stone fortress, with crenulations and arrow slits and watch towers along the walls. Tall metal spikes jut up from the outer walls – pikes? Leah can’t tell. Within, she can just barely see the top of a large building with slate roof tiles. The setting sun allows no more visual than that.

Leah leads Beeswax a bit further back into the woods, and off the trail. She ties her to a low-hanging branch, and leaves enough line for the horse to wander and eat her fill of the grass, or lie down if she wishes.

“I’ll come back,” she whispers, then turns to leave. She stops, turns back, and whispers, “I’ll try to come back.”

Leah turns again, and sets off with purpose, running across the open space between the trees and the wall.

She skirts the outer wall until she finds an entrance; north-facing, wooden gates, no moat, no portcullis. She pushes and pulls the doors, and finds them locked. Looking through the gap between them, she sees an empty courtyard with a flagstone floor and a fountain in the middle, with lit torches around the perimeter. The door appears to be locked with a beam. The wood is about four inches thick, and fresh – unmarred by mould or weapons damage or weather.

She takes the tip of her short-spear and slides it between the doors, sliding it up under the horizontal beam. By the way it tilts, it seems to be on a hinge; she lifts slowly, praying her spear will take the weight, until finally one of the doors swings quietly open.

She lets the beam fall, and it swings down, grinding a bit against the wood of the door before stopping. She holds her breath, waiting for a guard to come out and see her.

The courtyard is empty.

Taking a calming breath, she closes the door behind her and looks around to figure out her next step. The keep itself is a very tall building, composed of many different segments with varying heights, and built of plain grey stone. Not easy to climb, by the looks of it, but the front door stands open.

A guard steps out. Leah ducks back as quickly as she can into the shadow of the gateway, and watches as the man walks along the side of the wall, not even looking into the courtyard as he does so. The trickling water of the fountain covers the sound of his footfalls, and Leah hazards a guess that it will cover hers, too.

She walks along the opposite side of the courtyard, keeping the fountain between her and the man. He ducks into the next nearest door, says a few words, then gestures for someone inside to leave. Another guard emerges, and the first takes his place inside. The second goes back to the main door and enters.

Changing of the guard? Just one guard?

Leah makes no assumptions and creeps forward, looking around the edge of the entrance. Through the gap in the open door she can see a pair of men discussing something in a foreign language – close to English, but difficult to follow.

“So uen es th sepmen du teu arriv?”

“Cannau bi teu seun fõ mi lieng.”

The two move further away as they talk, giving a nod to the doorguard, who takes up his post in front of the main entryway, a rapier at his side.

Leah waits. The stone archway of the door allows her to stand in shadow along the building’s wall, though she keeps a close eye on the windows looking out on the courtyard, in case someone passes by. Occasionally she sees occupants moving, but only very few.

After a half-hour of painful standing, the guard leaves and goes towards the doorway he originally came from – the barracks, or break room, Leah isn’t sure exactly but she recognises this as her chance. She pushes open the front door, which she notices as she passes does not seem to have a latch; it swings freely, though a frame for a bar suggests it can be closed against weather or enemies as needed. For now, however, it is open and unguarded.

A terrifying warrior-lord indeed! Too cocky by far, no wonder we snuck in so easily last time.

She hesitates, remembering what Meredith said about sigil-traps. No; I wouldn’t know one even if I did see it in time, so no point looking. No time to waste, either, she thinks, hearing a guard returning.

She chooses the left-hand branch, where the pair had originally walked down. She creeps silently along the wood-plank floors, the hallways very well lit. The exposure makes her nervous, and she darts into the first side-passage she sees for a break. No sound reaches her. The side passage leads up a spiral staircase, similar in look to the servants’ passages of the Valerid estate. Leah decides to follow it.

At the second floor she finds herself looking out into a parlour-type area, with padded chairs and side tables with oil lamps. The room is dark and empty, with a closed door on the opposite side. She tiptoes across to try it, and finds it unlocked. Cracking it open, she looks out into the hallway beyond.

A guard paces the length of it, facing away from her, and turns the corner. She waits. Two minutes later he returns, and Leah freezes, hoping he won’t notice the cracked-open door; he does not. One minute later he passes again, heading back the same way he started.

A long, bent hallway that takes one and a half minutes to walk down. Possibly a dead end on each side. Only one guard mobile, others possibly stationed along the length. Too risky.

She doubles back to the servant’s stairwell, only to hear ascending steps. Dropping to a crouch behind a chair, she listens as a pair of gossiping young boys ascend the steps quickly, accompanied by the clanking of cleaning buckets and tools in their hands.

Leah waits a moment more, then darts up the stairs and exits into the next highest room – which, she finds, is actually a hallway.

She ducks back into the stairs, then looks back out slowly. This hall is less well-lit, but there are still two guards seated at the far end, playing cards as they finish their supper. Leah watches a serving woman approach, take their empty plates, and carry them towards the spiral staircase. Leah ascends one rotation, quickly, and breaths easy to hear the woman is going down, not up.

She continues her climb. The next exit leads out to a hallway, well-lit, and after a minute a pair of guards go walking by. Leah counts out the seconds, and three minutes later they pass the opposite way; counting again, and after three minutes they have doubled back to their starting direction. Leah waits twenty seconds, then walks after them, staying to the edge of the hall.

The walls are hung with paintings, some of them portraits but most are of landscapes and scenes of divine beings in grand poses. Leah is curious but does not stop, staying just far enough behind the guards to be barely visible. They turn a corner, and Leah stops to look for a good door, to continue her journey. The first two she tries are either locked or would make too much noise to attempt to open, but the third gives easily to her touch.

She slips in and closes the door behind her, and finds herself in total darkness. A moment’s silence passes as her eyes adapt, and she sees she is in a bedroom of some sort; wooden bed frame, dresser, large window overlooking a different courtyard. She crosses the room and looks down into the yard, one side lined with blacksmith’s forges. There appears to be no commotion on the ground level or the walls, so she assumes Beeswax has not been found.

She hears the guards pass by outside, and she waits another twenty seconds before opening the door and following them. She tries doors as she goes, but finds no others that are easy to open subtly. Finally the hallway reaches a T-intersection; the two guards continue straight, so she ducks down the left branch – a short staircase heading upwards – with a quick glance to ensure it is unwatched.

It soon joins another passage, running parallel to the first but one storey up. Leah waits, crouched behind a large decorative vase, in case guards walk this passage as well. After five minutes she hears none, so she straightens and walks out into the hall.

The left side is covered with narrow windows, overlooking the forest beyond. She is on the fifth floor, and can quite easily see over the keep’s wall, past the roof of the hallway she just left. Leah walks quickly, and tries every door very gently, avoiding any with light escaping underneath them. She find a dark room whose door gives easily, though it swings with a quiet creak.

She slips inside and closes it again, hoping no-one heard, or if they had that they wouldn’t be able to identify which door had been opened. Taking a moment to look around, she finds herself in a library, rather small compared to the bedroom or parlour, but lovely.

No-one passes in the hall, so after a few minutes she leaves and tries the next few doors: one leads to a storage cupboard filled with bedding, one to a barely stocked armoury, and one to a wash closet. On reaching the end of the hallway, Leah finds another servant’s passage behind a heavy fabric curtain, with wooden stairs leading upwards.

She ascends, always listening, and ducks into the first doorway she sees, listening for activity on the other side.

“Ua deu yu myn no coal fõ teu wys? Ua uell uy ful ue th forzes?”

The voice is muffled, but nearby. The room beyond smells like sweat on metal, and occasional clangs suggest it is either a training area or other place for activity. Leah skips the door and continues upwards.

The next doorway is blocked by a curtain, beyond which Leah can hear pacing footsteps. They approach, pause, then turn and recede. Leah risks a peek, and sees one guard leaving, and one standing directly beside the curtain, facing away. He turns his head as the curtain moves, and Leah drops it, ducking back down a few steps.

“Heu uas tha?” The guard reaches a hand in and opens the curtain, looking first up and then down – a choice that allows Leah a split second to lunge forward, slam her shield against his head, and knock him unconscious. Knowing there is no time to listen for the other guard to maybe return or not, she darts straight out of the curtains and tries every door she sees until one opens, at the end of the short hall.

Beyond is a balcony, running around whatever room it was she skipped below; looking down, she sees men and women, in uniform and out, milling about in what looks like a training area. The room is rather large, with a bare wood floor, and the roof is high.

How many floors up am I? Leah wonders. Have I lost count? No, I remember: this is the seventh. The keep looked a bit taller from the outside, so she assumes there are multiple levels of roofs that reach even higher than this one.

She considers continuing her trip on the roof, but the risk of falling dissuades her. She leaves the balcony before someone thinks to look up, and goes back to the stairwell, dragging the unconscious guard’s body onto the dark balcony where hopefully no-one will notice it.

The stairs stop one more floor up, again at a curtain. Leah can hear more voices outside, and is about to decide to go back when the people pull open the curtain and descend. Leah, pressing herself against the shadowed far wall, goes unnoticed by the distracted talkers; servants, by their dress.

She waits for them to go, then peeks into the now-empty floor. It is unlit, and appears to be the living quarters for most of the guards. Rooms like little dorms lead out from the main hall, some lit and some not; guards seemingly off-duty are within the rooms, either reading or talking or settling in to sleep, but the hall itself is empty. At the end of the hallway is another spiral staircase, with no door or curtain, heading up.

Leah braces herself, then begins to casually and confidently walk down the hallway, not ducking, not hiding, walking as though she belongs there. Most doors are closed, and even those not closed lead only to distracted occupants or sleeping figures.

She makes it through unnoticed, and realises that her arms are shaking from fear. She thanks her luck, then continues upwards.

The staircase’s wall is marked by occasional cubbies, in which stand statues, almost life-size, of various divine and lay figures, as near as Leah can tell. Interesting style…not quite Greek, nowhere near Egyptian, and only slightly like modern metal statues. If I had to pick, I’d say they looked Catholic.

The staircase ends two stories up, at a round room at the top of one of many towers of the keep. A balcony surrounds it, on which two guards stand, looking out over the grounds and keeping watch. A lantern within, operated by a third guard, blinks out a regular pattern, replied to by other lights in other towers. The three are having a quiet conversation, casual and slow, as they stand their watch.

Leah grips the shaft of her spear, swallows, and steps into the faint light leading down the stairs from the lantern.

She takes a breath, purses her lips, and: “Psst!”

The three guards nearly jump out of their skin; the youngest, manning the light, flinches so much that he breaks the handle off the lantern hood, and it falls closed with a clang.

“Heu gos thẽ?” one of the guards asks, a woman with her short hair loosely braided and uncovered by any helmet. The other, with his helmet on, reaches a gauntleted hand over to lift the dropped hood and turn the lantern down the stairway. Faint calls reach Leah’s ears from the other towers as their guards wonder what has happened.

“Ah!” Leah winces from the lights. “I know I’ve startled you. I’ve come to talk.”

The two guards look blank, but the younger one perks up.

“Oh! Volsty? From Vols? Volst?”

“Ah, yes, I speak Volsti,” Leah says, hesitantly.

“I knonau anyuon heu es fleuen…”

“Ua dos tha mattẽ? Ƃau de sy ge hỹ?”

Leah steps slowly up out of the stairs. All guards immediately go to draw their weapons, and gradually their eyes widen in recognition. Leah throws her weapons to the ground at their feet, then bows.

“I am here to speak with Seffon, Lord of the Enterlan.”