Wren had been sailing upriver from the ferry station at the border between Ravnice and Fjall for two days. At last, the mouth of Fjall was within view. The namesake mountain which contained the city stretched to the clouds above him.

The mouth of the River Fjall was a gaping one-hundred-foot-wide chasm entrance in the mountainside from which the river flowed to Ravnice city and the sea.

As the ferry passed under the thirty-foot-high cavern mouth, Wren’s eyes quickly adjusted to the dark, giant cave that stretched before him. He could see the docks and slips with ferries and small merchant vessels tied off along the left side. However, he was more interested in his immediate destination, where the docks ran into a rock ledge at the cave’s back. There, where the river went underground, two dwarves in plated armor guarded the entrance.

Their shields were almost as tall as their five-foot frames and rested on the ground. One dwarf had a hammer in his belt loop, the other an ax. There had not been open warfare on Quaj in a hundred years. For dwarves though, old habits die hard, Wren well knew, especially when most of the Fjall dwarves had been alive for the disastrous War of Magi a century before.

Wren appreciated that while no other city kept more than a policing militia, Fjall maintained a professional standing military. With a thousand actively employed and another five hundred reserves working other jobs day to day, its active ranks were a fifth the size of the Kalt or Ravnice militia and maybe a tenth the size of those in Mer or Tuath.

Wren made the short jump off the ferry and onto the docks, thanking the crew. Then, he headed for the two dwarves and the passage into Fjall.

“Good day,” he greeted them.

“What’s your business in Fjall, Master Gnome?” the one with the hammer in his belt asked.

“I am bound for The Sanctum and have a couple stops at the shops below.” The dwarf nodded to Wren as he walked by them into the squatter, lengthier passage, which split a few paces in. The tunnel to the left would take him upward and into the city proper.

Wren, however, was headed downward via the other tunnel, which angled towards the heart of the mountain. Living quarters and vendor shops lined the underground thoroughfare, all lit by a combination of mage enchanted light and the flames of torches.

Halfway down, Wren stopped and went through the doorway into what, to him, was the most beautiful place a gnome could find on the island. The shop was one open cave the size of a large human house with rows of counters and display cases holding every type of jewelry conceivable.

There were endless combinations of every type of jewel and metal worked together that one could imagine. The most prominent grouping of gnomes on Quaj ran the shop. They could have easily afforded mage stone lights for their shop but used dancing flames instead. The effects of lantern and torch fires waltzing across the gems and jewelry had Wren momentarily enthralled.

An elderly gnome woman shuffled from behind a counter after rummaging behind it. “Ahh, Wren, so good to see you. Your order is ready,” she said as she handed him the platinum wristlet.

The Sleeper’s image, nude and resting on her side with her head laid on her hands, twinkled in the light on the solid band. The gnomes had carved it from a single amethyst that must have initially been the size of his fist.

The beauty and weight of it took Wren’s breath away. He had initially ordered the piece for himself, but he had changed his mind on its eventual purpose.

“It is perfect, as always.” He gave the gnome woman the rest of the payment for the piece and took a moment to stroll around the store. His spirit leaped with the flames flickering in the jewels as he walked. Finally, he bid the gnomes farewell and headed further down the tunnel. It did feel good to be back below ground and seeing his kin and their marvelous work always brought a smile to his face.

Wren was virtually at the end of the downward thoroughfare. The Fjall Mining Company platform was before him, but he first made for the last door before it. He knocked twice and waited.

“Who be it?” The familiar, gruff dwarven voice greeted him from the other side.

“It is Wren, Lorkin,” the gnome answered.

The thick stone door swung open, revealing the oldest living mage on the island. Despite his three hundred years, his long black hair pulled up in a knot atop his head showed no grey. His cherubic face and shortly kept beard further hid his long years.

He wore the customary orange robe of The College of Elements, the black cuffs and edging marking him as a mage. The embroidery on his chest depicted Fjall mountain, the symbol of the Tower of Stone. Smiling at Wren, the dwarf welcomed him in. “Good day, Death Speaker.”

“Sorry for the brevity, but I have a task at hand myself,” Wren apologized. He produced the wristlet and a parchment describing the intended enchantment and handed them to the dwarf, who silently admired it for a moment after scanning the parchment.

“Your kin work with jewels like mine do metals,” he complimented. “The enchantment is an odd choice and a difficult one. It will take some doing.”

Wren nodded his agreement but did not explain as he handed over the coins to pay. He then bid the stone mage and his five apprentices a good day and departed the Tower of Stone’s annex. He could have had the item enchanted at the college but preferred the spiritually gifted work of those that lived under the mountain. The dwarf and gnome mages and sages of the annex had an almost religious love and familiarity with the stone.

Wren knew even Stone Sage Mara and Stone Mage Vennil in Mer would agree that Lorkin was chief among them. His ability to wield magic and control stone garnered him much respect from his younger compatriots of other races.

From the mining platform at the foot of the stone causeway were six tunnel entrances. Five headed to different mining operations and one to the deeper places that Wren sought. It had another pair of dwarven guards and a gate.

“Headed down to The Sanctum?” one of the dwarves asked.

Wren nodded. “I should return in three days.”

The dwarf produced a ledger and motioned for Wren to fill it out. The Sanctum was almost a half a day’s march through the island’s underbelly, and there was considerable risk of the inexperienced getting lost. Checking his information, the dwarf bid Wren good luck and raised the portcullis that blocked the tunnel.

The walk through the tunnels would have been cramped and stifling for a human. For Wren though, it resembled what an elf must experience on a stroll through peaceful woods. The pitch blackness and near silence would be troubling to most, but they were welcome solace to Wren.

The shifting humidity and temperature as he passed side tunnels and channels were as soothing as so many soft breezes. The drips of water making their way down from the mountaintop were like beautiful bird songs to the gnome. So it was that the hours-long trek passed by like moments as he walked, often letting his fingers slide along the smooth rock walls.

Slowly he felt the air begin to change, and the incline he walked on was starting to increase noticeably. The upward slope of the tunnel floor continued until he was in the stairway to The Sanctum itself. He smiled as he began upwards along the spiraling stairwell.

After ascending for half an hour, Wren’s legs tired as he reached the last few stories. The air had cooled and was almost refreshing as it crept in from small windows the size of arrow slits that dumped cold mountain air in from outside and afforded Wren quick glimpses of the outside.

At last, he arrived at the midnight-black doors of The Sanctum. A gemmed mosaic of The Sleeper, as tall as a man and twice as wide, adorned the three feet thick slabs of slate. The doors loomed like the entrance to a giant mausoleum.

When the dwarves installed them, they had been so perfectly balanced that even Wren could have opened them from the inside with little effort, so long as the locking mechanism was undone. He struck the gong hanging on the wall to the left of the great doors, and moments later, they silently swung inward. A pale, dark-haired man of no more than twenty years stood inside the doorway wearing the unembroidered, plain, purple robes of an acolyte.

The man was almost halfway done with his rehearsed welcome speech when he confusedly stopped mid-sentence staring at the gnome’s robe. “Who amongst the living dares journey to The Sanc….”

Wren crossed his arms at the impudent youth. “Death Speaker Wrennulmatlkuonoksug Svatnurlak”

The acolyte grew even more confused and suspicious. “Never heard of no Death Speaker wrench cookout maggot lock,” he said, narrowing his eyes.

Tiring of the young man, Wren reached into the air in front of him and drew from it his scythe. Snapping the fingers on his other hand, Xissay appeared lounging atop his left shoulder.

With a yawn, she floated to hang in the air slightly above Wren. “Oh, good, we’re finally here. Who’s this idiot?” she asked, glaring at the acolyte. Her high-pitched voice seemed to titter in echoes off the walls.

“You,” she said, pointing at the befuddled acolyte. “Your mouth is for talking, not breathing.”

Wren stopped Xissay with an upheld hand, sparing the poor man. “This is just soon-to-be-thrown-in-The-Dreamer’s-Door Acolyte Nobody if he doesn’t go and tell the Herald that Death Speaker Wren has arrived and seeks an audience at her earliest convenience.”

The man shut his silently open mouth and ran off as Wren entered The Sanctum, shaking his head.

“Don’t worry about the door!” Xissay shouted after the man as loud as her little voice would allow. She then whispered, “idiot,” quiet enough for only Wren to hear as the gnome closed the slate slab doors.

“Are you going to behave?” he asked his familiar.

Xissay pulled a face and then exaggeratedly closed her lips before pinching them with her fingers.

Wren shot her a skeptical look and snapped his fingers again. As the smoke appeared around her, she threw a parting insult at Wren’s expense. “Fine killjoy, but when you’re done seducing corpses, take me to the miner’s tavern deep in Fjall. I miss the warmth of the deep places, and you look like you need a drink or five.”

Leaving the entryway behind him, Wren caught up with the acolyte who was standing, head bowed, at the door to the reliquary.

“Apologies, Death Speaker Wren, please forgive my earlier rudeness. She is alone at prayer inside. The other necromancers are currently about their duties. We just finished our daily commune.”

Wren gave the man a warm look. “No need for forgiveness, acolyte...?”

“Acolyte Jabruelle Kalt,” the young man answered with a low bow,”

“Well met Jabruelle, The Sleeper’s blessing to you,” the gnome said and went inside the cavern-like amphitheater known as the reliquary as the acolyte softly shut the door behind him. He walked down the center aisle, past rows of stone benches that would hold over a hundred necromancers but of late saw barely thirty.

Another reason not to alienate the young and newer member, he thought. It was not the youth’s fault that Wren was the only one of the six death speakers that spent most of his time away from the temple rather than in it. At the end of the amphitheater was a raised stone platform with what looked like an oversized well and a stone bench curving a “U” shape around it facing the rest of the reliquary.

Alone in the middle of the bench sat a hulking, hunched figure wrapped in a flowing purple robe with the same silver embroidery on the cuffs and hood as Wren’s but with the stars of The Sleeper’s constellation emblazoned in diamonds on the breast and back of the robe. Wren had been a newly minted death speaker when she had washed up on the shores of Quaj eighty years ago. The lapping waves had pinned her unconscious form into the rocks of the island’s western rocky coast. Eventually, a dwarven patrol had found her. When they finished digging her an unmarked burial hole, her regeneration had brought her back to life.

The dwarves had nearly been frightened to death themselves when she sat up halfway through being covered in dirt. She had no memory of her name and would speak at length about The Great Dream and the beautiful goddess within it to anyone who would listen. The dwarves thought perhaps the necromancers in The Sanctum might be able to help reach her sanity.

The Herald did not remove her hood, move, or speak as Wren approached the dais and sat near her. Bowing his head and holding his scythe across his lap, he began whispering in prayer.

After finishing, he stood and walked up to her. He took a moment to peer into the blackness of The Dreamer’s Door. The small, well-like stone structure sat atop a fissure that rumor said reached the center of the world. Dropping a stone or coin into it would never result in the sound of it hitting bottom. The necromancers worshiped The Sleeper in this holiest place where they assumed their words would reach her ears as she slept in The Great Dream beneath the mortal plane.

“Greetings, Death Speaker Wren,” the female mountain troll said as she removed her hood, exposing her red pupils, crooked, toothy smile, and greenish-grey skin.

The regenerative powers of her race had allowed her to visit The Sleeper again and again. Each time she was slowly returned to the living. Those numerous intimacies with death enabled her to rise to the rank of death speaker and ultimately granted the Herald’s Scythe from within The Great Dream by The Sleeper Herself.

“Greetings, Herald. I have an urgent question for Our Lady,” Wren said, bowing.

“A question for Our Lady in service of your organization?” Wren nearly dropped his scythe in surprise at the apparent mention of The Syndicate.

“Do not worry, Wren, had you fallen from her favor, you would lose sway over your familiar, and your scythe would be lost to The Dream forever.”

Wren did not feel the need then and there to inform the Herald that he was not quite sure he ever had sway over Xissay.

The Herald continued in her broken and guttural use of the common tongue. “The Sleeper has informed me of your shared loyalties and that she sees no conflict between the two. She knows your devotion well.

Ask your question then, and I will listen and see if she feels that the question and the one asking it are worthy of a response.” Wren grasped his scythe in both hands and prayed to The Sleeper, asking her of Sirul Amun’s fate. Almost immediately, the Herald’s back snapped straight, and her eyes opened.

Her hands clutched the eight-foot-long handle of her intricate scythe. A leopard’s skull made of platinum with fist-sized rubies for eyes held the three-foot onyx blade atop it in place. The weapon quivered and then steadied in her hands.

“Rarely has she answered so quickly. This soul is known to her as well as you or I are,” she said, rising to stand with Wren.

“This Sirul Amun has personally given more souls to her handmaidens than any being still living.”

The Herald’s response puzzled and troubled Wren. He knew full well how odd it was for The Sleeper to respond so hastily. He hadn’t expected to get an answer for The Syndicate at all, but orders were orders.

The knowledge that his Lady knew and accepted his role in The Syndicate brought him some comfort. He joined the Herald for a ritual with the other death speakers and supped with necromancers.

He later retired to an unused room. Struggling to calm his mind, he pondered why the Navigators needed to know of this Sirul’s fate. Tomorrow he would find peace in the tunnels of stone and visit a particular tavern in Fjall with a certain thankless familiar.

*****

The complete blackness of Harpis’ room disintegrated as his metal-clad door was flung open, slamming against the stone wall. The resounding clang turned the space into a giant bell that wrenched him from slumber. He sat up, squinting his eyes at the light, and held his hands to his ears until the toll of the door dissipated.

“Get up. It is time to get started,” Arken shouted at him from the hallway.

Harpis moaned and rolled out of bed wearing only his pants. His bare chest bore a sizeable black fishhook tattoo he had gotten to match his father’s several years ago. In addition, tentacles of a massive kraken tattooed on his back peaked over his shoulders and encircled the base of his neck.

He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “You said we would start tomorrow!” he responded accusingly.

“It has been tomorrow for several hours now,” Arken said from the hallway. The spymaster raised an arm, pointing at Harpis’ chest. “Any more of that on your body?”

Harpis shook his head. “Just this and the back,” he said, turning to give Arken a full view of the kraken that covered his back and shoulders.

Arken motioned for him to turn back around. “Get dressed, and next time you are with the Navigators, have them record their presence and location.”

Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, Harpis yawned and raised a questioning eyebrow at the other man.

“In case we need to identify your body, or in case we catch wind of some dangerous folks looking for someone with your specific markings,” Arken said, indicating for him to follow him out into the hallway.

Harpis finished donning his boots and tunic and followed the other man through the narrow stone tunnels as they made their way towards the volcanic crater of a courtyard.

“I wouldn’t recommend getting any more of those, especially any you can’t easily cover up in normal attire. Being easily identifiable can be a professional hazard if you make it that far,” Arken advised him.

Harpis paused for a step as the implications of his tattoos and the institution he was currently trying to join sank in before catching up with Arken, who had kept walking.

“You should start keeping a mental tally of folk who have or end up seeing your tattoos. That way, you are more aware of who may be able to recognize you in various circumstances,” Arken continued when he was once again close.

The men stepped out into the dim courtyard under a heavily clouded early morning sky. As they did, the air noticeably became cooler and brought with it the salted notes and sounds of the sea.

Arken stopped and faced him. “What did I tell you I would teach you?”

Fully awakened by the cool sea air and used to waking early as a fisherman, Harpis echoed what Arken had said the day before. “Everyone may be a mark or a threat, and all information could be valuable or save my life.”

Arken nodded at him. “How many doors did we pass on our way here?”

Harpis shrugged unknowingly. “Uhhh, I think five?”

Arken shook his head. “Seven. How many exits are there to this courtyard?”

“Four, one at the end of each of the paths that cross here in the middle,” he answered confidently, having taken in the courtyard with great interest the other day.

Arken pointed at the navigator’s office window that looked down on the courtyard. “Could you not climb through that?”

As the sky above began turning from black to grey, the courtyard became lit with a drab grey hue. Harpis started looking around at his surroundings with a different perspective than he had the first time he passed through.

Arken interrupted his observations by drawing his sword and thrusting the point at Harpis’ neck. Stumbling as he backpedaled, Harpis stared wide-eyed as Arken slashed at him again before stopping his assault as suddenly as he started.

“Close your eyes right now!” Arken commanded.

Harpis warily closed his eyes. He was reasonably sure that if Arken wanted to kill him, it wouldn’t matter if his eyes were open or closed, so he obliged the man.

Harpis heard the snap of Arken’s sword returning to its sheath. “Now, which exit are you closest to?”

Harpis felt helpless, having no idea which direction Arken had just forced him to move.

“I don’t know,” he replied meekly.

Arken was unrelenting. “Keeping your eyes closed, tell me the nearest item you could use as a weapon to defend yourself?”

Harpis simply shrugged unknowingly and opened his eyes. Arken indicated for him to turn around. Doing so, he realized he was almost to the coop where the chickens had been sleeping. An ax lay resting against the outside wall. Harpis was exasperated at not noticing the sounds of the agitated chickens inside.

Arken crossed his arms. “If you are predictable, you will quickly find yourself dead. If you are unpredictable, it is hard to be set up or followed without notice. Pay attention to everyone and always be looking for a way out, a way back in and keep track of things you could use to save your life on the paths you travel,” he said in a heavy tone.

Harpis returned the stern expression Arken was giving him, but his serious demeanor was lost when his stomach grumbled loudly enough for his teacher to hear.

Arken’s face did not soften. “Go quickly and take care of that. Return here with haste, and I expect more accurate answers to my questions. Don’t be followed either.”

Harpis started walking towards the tunnel to the kitchens but paused when he saw the growing anger in Arken’s eyes.

“The quickest path is the most predictable, and I thought I was clear when I said with haste!” The spymaster shouted at Harpis.

His voice boomed and echoed off the crater walls, and the chickens in the coop sounded their displeasure at being startled.

Harpis’ face flushed with humiliation as the feeling of embarrassment washed over him, and he took off at a sprint.