Myrlman was angrily pacing the balcony of what was now his office overlooking the city. He constantly paused to glare down at the Exarch’s entourage as they made their way to the Tuath Diocese, where the local vicar waited to greet them. After each pause, he snarled to himself and resumed pacing.

Niverna sat silently on the far side of the grand desk, noting the growing rage and resentment she now saw in Myrlman. She also appreciated the irony that the father thought Myrlman would never come to resemble his rule.

Her analysis was interrupted as he stopped with his back to her and clutched the railing. “Who does he think he is, refusing me!” Myrlman said, half shouting and half growling.

Niverna straightened in her chair and laid her hands in her lap, preparing for the verbal onset she thought likely to follow. “He is the Exarch,” she said.

Myrlman spun around at the overly obvious point, prepared to tear into her for assuming him stupid.

She held up a finger and clarified, “The Exarch adheres to neutrality when it comes to Tuath. Just as he does when it comes to the other city-states, he knows that to confer the power of governorship to you could be seen as an endorsement to hereditary politics. A fact which could cause him to have issues with the other city-states.”

Myrlman stalked in from the balcony and put his hands flat on the desk across from her before responding. “I will have their whole little gathering expelled from our city-state, the Tuath Vicar and his clerics included!”

Niverna raised an eyebrow at the exclamation from the young man she had thought well educated by her hand. “Shall I have someone fetch a necromancer to perform the burial rites instead then?”

Myrlman sat back in his chair as he realized the implications. “I’ll not have the corpse worshippers usher my father’s soul.” He stood and thrust his finger triumphantly in the air in front of her face. “I shall expel them after my father’s burial rites!”

Niverna remained stoic. “And then who would your people go to for healing in Tuath? Gifted, or otherwise, the clerics are all trained at the hospital in Mer,” she responded.

Myrlman spun around and threw his hands up in frustration as he walked back to his balcony and resumed pacing and glaring at the distant diocese.

*****

Whether a necromancer or cleric performed them, the burial rites and body preparation commonly happened within a day or two of death. Seulman Tuath’s corpse lay in the cool second basement of the diocese for almost five full days. The local vicar had delayed the rites and examination upon hearing word that the Exarch himself and several of his attendants were due to arrive in Tuath after visiting some of the more remote communities of the island.

Exarch Hameki Cooperson was a squat man who showed every one of his seventy-two years in the wrinkles in his face. Though not overly fat, he had given up healthy eating for daily indulgence several years ago, and his belly showed it.

Though Daybreak had not gifted him with healing magic, he was a practicing doctor for over fifty years. Joined by his two attendants and the local clergy members, he began examining the corpse of Seulman with both the forensic attention of an autopsy and the reverent care of a blessing.

Before beginning the autopsy, he sat staring at the corpse while rubbing his bald head and stroking his waist-long, red, and white beard in contemplation. He removed the black and gold cloak of his station and the white cleric robes beneath it. The vicar and other attendants followed the suite, donning black work smocks more appropriate for the bloody work at hand.

The Exarch cutaway bloodied and soiled clothing, which he handed to one of his attendants to burn. They would show Seulman’s blood the respect that the rest of his body would receive at the pyre next dawn. As the Exarch continued cutting clothes away, he examined the lethal throat wound. His attendant Ezera, who was a vicar in her own right, interrupted his commentary on the various arteries, veins, and muscles that had been severed.

“Your holiness, there is something odd about the way his clothes are burning,” she said.

Even a first-year student at the school in Mer would recognize the odd hue of the flames coming from the bloodied clothes to indicate some unnatural agent had been coursing through Seulman’s body at his death. The unmistakable blue flames of alcohol flared here and there as they consumed the garments, but the odd green flame and its acrid smoke persisted until the clothes were gone.

Without a word, Hameki grabbed a scalpel, cut open Seulman’s abdomen, and sliced a large chunk from the liver, and threw it into the fire. The resulting smoke was of the same thick green hue and then was entirely consumed by green flames.

He turned to the rest of the room. “There is enough poison in this man’s veins to kill a horse or two. The venom of a cave spider from the underbelly of the world, if I am not mistaken.”

The clerics shifted nervously and began whispered conversations. Had two men tried to kill Seulman? Was it an assisted suicide? The possibilities were many, and their repercussions were all severe.

“Silence!” the word dropped from the Exarch’s mouth like a hammer fall.

He made sure he had everyone’s attention. “This information and any conclusion drawn from it will have far-reaching implications for the island, and I fear none of them are good.”

He stopped for a moment to caress his beard in thought. “Myrlman already knows his father was murdered. It has thrown the young man and likely this city-state into a vengeful mood. I will not feed their rage or cloud their judgment further by telling them of this.”

Hameki pointed straight at the head of the Tuath Diocese. “Vicar, you will not record what we have witnessed here in case Myrlman takes to reading the recorded histories in these dioceses. I will have it recorded in Mer so that the information is not lost.”

He examined the corpse one last time before dictating their course of action. “Let as much of his blood as possible and burn it, his liver and kidneys here, before preparing the body. Triple the amount of anointing oil used at his pyre to try and hide the poison’s smoke. You are all here now to swear to Daybreak before me that you will obey my wishes.”

After murmured oaths from all in the room, they finished the burial rites in private and left to wash and put on their formal robes for the ceremony to be held at dawn tomorrow.

*****

Qarn was resting his elbows on the office window ledge, staring out into the courtyard below, when he heard Trilia thank someone at the door.

She walked over to him and laid her hand on his shoulder. “News from Wren and Niverna.”

Qarn turned to see the two sealed parchments in her hands. “To business then,” he said as they made their way to the triangular table.

Opening the first one, Trilia read aloud Niverna’s message.

Open incursion was problematic

Collision potentially unavoidable

Rudder likely damaged

“So, she doesn’t feel as comfortable in being able to control the situation in Tuath as before, despite the son now ruling,” Qarn commented.

“And things between Mer and Tuath may, if anything, be getting worse,” Trilia concluded.

“What’s this business about Seulman’s death then?” Qarn asked.

Trilia only shrugged. “Niverna has always been succinct. I can’t figure out what she means by the incursion being open? The Brewer and The Needle before him both had orders to make it look organic.”

Qarn cracked the seal to the letter from Wren and his face furrowed. “I am surprised Wren was able to get an answer. Given Niverna’s letter, I think Sirul Amun hasn’t simply hung up his Shadow.”

Trilia’s face tightened as he turned the paper for her to see.

Alive

“We need to seek clarification from our Hand and Eye in Tuath as soon as possible, as well as send an inquiry to The Brewer,” Trilia offered, and Qarn nodded his agreement. “I also think we ought to consult Turin and probably tell him to forego his planned return to Lodestar until we know more details about Sirul’s whereabouts and intentions.

*****

As the mid-summer rain carried on outside, Harpis was making his way to the kitchens to grab some lunch. In his four weeks on the island, he learned much of the place, its people, and The Syndicate.

The geopolitics were as intricate as they were intriguing. It was a testament to The Syndicate that there had only ever been two attempts by Mer and later Kalt to establish their own espionage and intelligence operations. Both of which The Syndicate operatives successfully infiltrated and ultimately dismantled over a generation or two.

After grabbing a warm roll and eggs from the kitchen, Harpis made his way back to his room to eat his breakfast. He made his way through the halls towards his room with tense, light footsteps.

His senses had been successfully honed to near-constant paranoia by the random assaults and burglary attempts that had beset him almost daily, just as his instructors had hoped.

Opening his door, he turned to set the breakfast tray on his small writing desk and felt the hair on his neck stand up.

The tray had barely touched the desk when he saw a blur as Braffen jumped from his bed. He could not react fast enough to prevent the dwarf’s arm from encircling his neck. It formed a triangle with the dwarf’s other arm and hand wrapped around the back of Harpis’ head, locking it firmly in place.

Starbursts began to appear in his vision from a lack of air in his lungs and blood. Harpis reacted instinctively. Both his hands shot to the forearm under his chin. Pulling down with all the strength he had, he turned inward to the left towards Braffen’s torso and stepped behind the dwarf’s feet.

His efforts on the dwarf’s arm felt like he was trying to pull a grown tree out of the ground. Slowly though, the choke yielded enough for Harpis to suck in a breath of air.

Abusing the dwarf’s height and the awkward angle of his arm, Harpis leaned into him, hip on hip, as hard as he could. The move sent both tumbling in a heap together over his left knee. As soon as they hit the ground, they were both already scrambling to find an advantage.

Harpis spun on his back, still holding Braffen’s forearm with both hands while quickly crossing his legs over the dwarf’s arms. He attempted the same lock he had been victim to the day they met. Unfortunately, the dwarf had been put in thousands of such grappling holds, and his experience and considerable strength kept Harpis from locking the arm straight and forcing the dwarf to yield.

After several moments of struggling, Harpis decided to embrace less scrupulous methods. He bit the dwarf’s arm hard, and as Braffen squealed in response, the flex of his arm gave for a second, and Harpis was able to lock it straight.

Braffen quickly snarled a disgruntled “I give!”

As they both straightened their clothes and got to their feet, Braffen crossed his arms. “I didn’t be learning ya that.”

“No, but you did teach me to win,” Harpis responded with an air of superiority.

“Did ya then?” The dwarf responded to Harpis’ widening grin.

Suddenly Braffen punched Harpis square in the gut and was rewarded with wheezes from the man.

“Aye, ye did win, and right dirty too,” he said. Walking past Harpis’ doubled-over form, he patted the back of Harpis’ head admonishingly.

“Took ya long enough, and well done. Enjoy your breakfast!” he said before departing the room with a chuckle.

After regaining air in his lungs and an appetite in his belly, Harpis finally finished his breakfast. While he had not planned the encounter with Braffen, his meeting this morning with Arken was something he had been excitedly anticipating since last night’s successful foray. The two men met in the courtyard entryway, staring together for a moment at the unrelenting deluge outside.

Arken addressed him without turning and held out his hand. “Well, young Harpis, how did yesterday’s thieving go? A coin this time?” Harpis placed two coins into Arken’s palm, and the man looked down at them with a satisfied look before rolling his eyes.

“You must stop picking on the chef, or he will start feeding you spoiled food,” he said.

He flipped the first coin back to Harpis. “Ahh, and the lighthouse keeper, not two impressive pulls, but stolen all the same.”

Harpis caught the second coin tossed back to him and could not hide his smugness as he handed the man the third coin. Arken turned it over and did not respond for a moment, just staring at its emblem.

“How did you get this?” he asked, looking Harpis in the eyes.

Harpis rubbed his hands together as he began his tale.

“A few days ago, Trilia recommended that I get to know all the folks around the island. Given the random assault order on my person, the task was both interesting and entertaining. One of the more fascinating folks I have met on this island is the lighthouse keeper.”

Arken looked on impatiently.

“You see, after meeting the two guards who were coming off shift in the lighthouse, I went upstairs to talk with the keeper. It turns out the old man just absolutely loves whiskey from his days back in Ravnice where he was from.”

Arken narrowed his eyes. “Everyone knows that. Get on with it!”

Harpis’ confidence grew as he went. “Now, I thought to myself, surely, getting two coins in one day would impress you. I knew I could steal again from the cook. With some of that whiskey I saw delivered on the same boat that brought me, I thought maybe I could get the lighthouse keeper’s as well. Now let me tell you, it is obvious that man was never an operative of The Syndicate. A few drinks in, and words never stopped. By the way, I think he is lonely up there.”

Arken motioned for Harpis to get to the point.

“Anyways, he tells me about his niece who works as one of the staff here at the island and how she cleans quarters, does linens, and often brings breakfast to some of the more senior folks. Now that got me thinking, it would be too hard to steal your coin from your person, but maybe she could start checking for it in your laundry for me or something,” he said, sticking his finger in up with an air of superiority.

“So early this morning, I met her in the kitchens and asked if she would not mind having coffee with me and listening to the rain. After chatting her up, I found out that she sees that coin of yours sitting on your nightstand every time she changes your linens. Now I was quite surprised. Surely the great spymaster Arken Hester wouldn’t cheat this great game of his own concoction by not having his coin on his person.”

Arken was quickly becoming visibly agitated.

“I told her about the training and how it seemed grossly unfair that you didn’t keep your coin on your person. She agreed that if you had been cheating, you deserved to be cheated. While you ate your breakfast before dawn broke this morning, she grabbed it for me and handed it over when I grabbed my food an hour later. Thankfully Braffen did not see it during our scrap. And so here we are. Cheater!” he said, backing out of striking distance as he finished.

“Well, that took you long enough,” Arken said dismissively.

Harpis’ demeanor became deflated as Arken’s lack of surprise undermined his triumphant accomplishment.

With a grin appearing on his face, Arken tossed Harpis’ own coin back to him. “Courtesy of Braffen Frothbrew.”

He could not hide his disappointment at being pickpocketed mid grapple with the dwarf nor the anticlimactic reaction from Arken.

“The Navigators wish to see us, come.”

The two men took the spiraling stone stairs to the second level, and Qarn’s gruff reply from inside bid them enter. Standing before the two seated Navigators across the triangle table, Arken addressed them without looking at Harpis.

“He has done well. Braffen and I feel he is ready to be assessed for on-the-job training with Wren.”

“Thank you,” Harpis stammered as Arken shook his hand.

“Don’t thank me yet. We leave the morning after tomorrow for Quaj and your final test,” Arken said.

The spymaster departed with a nod to the Navigators, who motioned for Harpis to join them in the third seat.

Qarn Spoke first. “I will reveal further details about the operations of The Syndicate upon successful completion of your final indoctrination task. As to your question regarding the chair you currently occupy, yes, there are three Navigators. That way, there can be no tie concerning our decisions about actions on Quaj. Turin Deadeye is the eldest of us three and the founder of The Syndicate. He is a wood elf sailor who shipwrecked on Quaj centuries ago.”

The gnome rubbed his hands over the symbols engraved into the table in front of him. “After seeing the island tear itself apart in a war between hereditary rulers, he set in motion clandestine mechanisms to see to the transfer of rule to more peaceful democratic means. He used The Syndicate and its agents to keep the island’s inhabitants headed unwittingly ever towards the greater good. One of us is always away from the island. It is typically Turin.”

Trilia spoke next. “As for the knife you brought here and your gift, I can tell you only what I know. How familiar are you with the two gifts?”

“Well, to start, I guess I didn’t know there were two different ones,” he answered.

“There is the gift that is given via devotion to, and favor from, one of The Five. Then, there is the gift some are born with. We elementalists typically discover our gift when we are young. It manifests as an innate ability to interact with one of the four elements.”

Harpis could hardly wait for her to finish answering before he asked his next question. “Which of the two is mine then?”

“That is a question whose answer is the topic of much debate. However, through Syndicate texts and research, it seems the scarce ability to sing gift-woven verse is a talent that one is born with,” she said.

“I never noticed the ability before; don’t most mages know of their gift before reaching adulthood?” he asked.

Trilia shrugged. “That is true, though many discover they can manipulate an element through a stressful or intense act. Perhaps you just needed the most desperate of circumstances to bring your inherited gift to light.”

Harpis was happy for the answers but still mightily confused. “Even once discovered, though, mages spend years practicing before they can bend the will of an element to their whiles. So how do you explain my very first foray resulting in exactly what I needed to happen?”

“That is what makes you so perplexing, Harpis Akkeri. An elementalist does not become an apprentice until they spend at least several years crafting their Cynosure,” she said, holding up her jeweled scepter. “It lets us concentrate our focus and improve our meld with our element. Only then can we begin the decades it takes to perfect the process of Anamnesis, wherein we can imbue the memory of the element into another object through enchantment. This type of enchantment is what lets a fire mage place the latent memory of a fireball into a staff and later summon it forth with an activation.”

Harpis was enthralled by the beauty of the finely crafted and jeweled scepter as she handed it to him to examine.

“The practice of Anamnesis typically culminates when we mages are ultimately able to impart our persona into our element and summon forth the elemental familiar required of reaching the rank of mage,” she said, taking back the scepter.

She motioned for him to hand her his dagger. “Which brings us to this,” she said softly, turning the blade over in her hand and admired the seductive form of The Siren in its handle.

“Apotheosis,” she whispered.

“What?” Harpis asked, at a loss.

“Few among us gifted elementalists, typically those of the longer-lived races, attain the rank of Magus through the creation of an elemental Apotheosis. It is the true and utter command of an element resulting in a permanent enchantment that slowly consumes its wielder’s life force when enacted.”

She gave the dagger back to him reverently. “This is the work of some long-dead Air Magus. Whomever it pierces, it will create a void of silence around them, sustained by draining their energy. Treasure it, Harpis. It is invaluable.”

He took the knife in his hand, cradling it a moment in appreciation before returning it to his boot. “I have certainly never heard of a bard enchanting an item like a mage. How does any of this apply to me?” he asked.

“Where we have our Cynosures, you gifted bards have your instruments. Where our intimation is to earth, air, fire or water, your innate connection is to other beings, and music is your conduit.”

Trilia stopped with a saddening expression and stood from her chair, as did Qarn. They both walked around to Harpis, who had followed suit in rising from his chair.

She kissed him softly on the cheek. “You’ll not see us again for some time. If you pass your assessment, you’ll be sent to The Hall for formal training and sanctioning as a bard. May the winds be ever at your back, young Harpis.”

Qarn clasped his hand. “We have high hopes for you lad, don’t cock it up.”

Still reeling from the information Trilia had told him, Harpis clumsily gave them both a short bow and excused himself from the room as pangs of sadness struck him.