The boat Wren rode made its way fully into the dimness of Fjall. When his eyes adjusted to the dark interior, he noted the addition of a giant ballista on the dock nearest the entrance. The dwarven crew tracked the small ferry as it docked, and two armed guards greeted and inspected it before the ballista turned back to face the river and cave mouth.

Stepping off and approaching the entrance tunnel of Fjall city, he saw there were ten dwarves where months earlier, there had been only two. He had to hand it to the dwarves. Their military-mindedness was nothing if not impressive. He was allowed to proceed after explaining his reasons for his visit to an officer amongst the group.

Wren took a moment on his downward trek to stop in and greet his fellow gnomes at their jewelry shop before he got to the college annex at the end of the downward sloping tunnel. Then, scythe in hand, he knocked on the door, and the booming voice of Stone Mage Lorkin hailed him from the other side.

“Come to collect that trinket, Death Speaker?” the dwarf asked as he welcomed Wren into the cave structure. For years this expanded cave served as a workshop and home to the small contingent of the Tower of Stone. Since he was there on more urgent business, he had nearly forgotten that he had left the bracelet with the mage.

“Ahh, yes, of course, can we please discuss payment…in private?” he asked.

Lorkin stared at him a moment with a raised eyebrow. “Surely, Master Gnome, right this way.”

Lorkin took them deep into the annex, through his private quarters, and then into the library and office in the tunnel off its deepest section.

Closing the thick iron door behind them, the dwarf turned to Wren. “You already paid me for the work on the bracelet, Wren. What’s this about?”

To avoid being overheard, Wren spoke in hushed tones. “I need you to get the Arch Mage here. Lie or do not, but hundreds of thousands of lives depend on us, and we need him here soon. I am afraid I cannot disclose more than that right now, but you must trust me. I swear to The Sleeper and the stone of her mausoleum, which we both have an affinity for that I would not ask this of you if I had any other option.”

Lorkin eyed him up and down. “I can get the Arch Mage here in a hurry, but you’re paying for the ferry trip and passage on a ship for one of my apprentices to get to him. Also, when he arrives, you’re the one who’s going to explain to him why I did not discover some relic in the mountains of exceptional power and mystery that requires his immediate consultation.” The dwarf paused for a moment in thoughtful consideration. “And you are to include me in whatever situation requires these measures.”

Wren nodded his agreement. “I apologize for the haste, but I must depart at once for The Sanctum.”

The dwarf shot him an impressed look. “The Death Herald will be attending as well then? This will be quite the gathering indeed.”

As they walked back out into the main annex, Stone Mage Lorkin motioned to one of his apprentices, who brought the amethyst and platinum bracelet to him.

“It was a good thing you were long in returning, the enchantment took much longer than anticipated.” Lorkin stated.

He fondly turned the amethyst visage of The Sleeper over in his hand before handing it to Wren. “Layering the memories of the gem’s resonance as it was struck and hewn from the rock by metal was quite taxing. I am confident in the enchantment, but the number of uses may be limited. It should allow for several dozen amplifications. Odd enchantment to ask for a necromancer, especially on such an exquisite piece.”

Wren took it, still in awe. He marveled a moment at The Sleepers beauty cut in pure amethyst. “Thanks to you and again for your help. I should return to Fjall in a few days.”

Leaving the annex behind, Wren made his way past the now heavily guarded gate to the tunnels deep beneath the mountain. Then, when the darkness of the stone had surrounded him, he summoned Xissay to join him on his trip.

“Oh, I do miss being beneath the world, a shame we can’t go to the deep places!”

The two made their way quickly through the tunnels, enjoying the subterranean silence. Finally, reaching the door to The Sanctum, Wren was ushered in as he dismissed Xissay to many complaints and drew his scythe.

Though time was precious, Wren still slipped quietly into the reliquary and joined in the evening prayer to The Sleeper.

When the necromancers finished and filed out, he stayed seated in the back. Once the door closed behind the last of the departing worshippers, the Death Herald, who had been acting as if he was not there, gave him an inviting wave.

Making her way to sit in front of The Dreamer’s Door, she lay her great scythe across her lap and spoke. “Death Speaker Wren, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, my friend?

Wren approached the Herald and joined her at The Dreamer’s Door. “I have troubling news and an important request.”

He proceeded to recount what had happened to The Syndicate and the goings-on in Tuath and Mer.

The Herald listened, the entire time her eyes were closed, deep in thought. “Many souls of late have made their way to The Great Dream, Wren. Our Lady is happy for the company, but she is troubled. Those joining her have Konflict’s name on their lips. They have his rage in their hearts and his conflagration in their eyes. To have another god so prevalent in her domain keeps her from sleeping deeply. She disapproves of the battle and war to come. She feels that they might bring her more souls with a stronger embrace of Konflict’s spirit than her own, which would disturb the peace within The Great Dream.”

How mind-altering it must be to share thoughts and moments of conversation with a god, Wren thought to himself before making his request. “Will you come to give us council, Herald?”

The giant troll gave Wren a toothy smile. “I will attend, and I will avail myself of whatever plan comes of this. Our Lady would never forgive me if I missed an opportunity to shepherd so many to her. I will be there this week as you have asked.”

She turned back fully to The Dreamer’s Door and began murmured prayers. Wren gave her a quick bow and made his way out of their temple and back to Fjall as quickly as possible.

*****

The chill of the pre-dawn hours in late autumn caused Ezera’s body to shake every few moments. Nevertheless, she patiently awaited the fast-approaching sun that would bathe her in warmth.

Sitting on the jagged rocks at the very edge of the Mer peninsula, she sat with her back against the seawall of The Archdiocese of Daybreak.

The Exarch’s voice spilled out of the central spire tower. Barely five words into his prayer, she saw the sun peak above the ocean, its morning rays bringing welcome heat to her face. She quietly prayed with the Exarch until the bottom of the sun cleared the horizon, and high above her, the Exarch concluded.

She had hoped the routine of performing her daily ritual would bring some comfort to her troubled mind, but it did not.

She was glad to see Turin after the ten years since leaving Lodestar, but the news he had brought in the waning hours of the night had made her heart heavier than she thought possible.

One last mission then for The Syndicate, destroyed as it might be. She hoped her unequaled favor and gift from Daybreak would be enough to convince The Exarch of her claims. Brushing her blond hair out of her face, she gave one last look at the rising sun before turning to enter the building.

Ezera caught up to the elderly Exarch as he finished his descent from the spiral stairs of the spire.

“Your Holiness, please, an urgent word,” she said, grasping his leathery hands.

“Ezera, but of course, my child, of course. Join me as I break my fast.”

She followed him as he made his way out of the worship area under the dome and to his quarters, the easternmost of the rooms ringing the circular chapel. Sitting together and alone, she thought she would have no better chance.

“Hameki!” she said, causing the older man across from her to straighten at the use of his name and not his title. “Daybreak spoke to me in my dreams last night, and when I woke, her intentions were still within my heart. We must hurry to Fjall. It is time to bathe the cave city in her light!”

The Exarch stared at her, forgetting to chew his food.

“Please, Exarch.” She said, reaching across and squeezing his hands. “Let us go and see. Let us talk with the dwarves at once.”

“This is wonderful news. For centuries, the dwarves have refused our presence in Fjall, yes, yes, of course, you may depart at once, my dear!” he said excitedly after finishing his food.

Ezera almost panicked. “No, Hameki, it was you in my dreams. You are to be the one to convince Ingar Hammersmith to let Daybreak into his home!”

The older man beamed with pride. “Then we shall leave this day!”

As they finished their breakfast, Hameki could not stop smiling.

Ezera felt bad for manipulating him. However, given the potential for the massive loss of life and everything Turin had said, she knew it was necessary. Somehow, she felt that her goddess would be content with what had been done in her name to protect and save lives. Whether her actions invoked the wrath of Daybreak or not, Ezera was at peace with her decision. She had served The Syndicate many years before she formally served the goddess at Hameki’s side. She owed her fallen companions one last lie.

She knew that upon arriving in Fjall and seeing that others like the Arch Mage were present there, the Exarch would likely accept it as divine providence.

She and Turin had discussed as much. If necessary, Turin had also told her he would convince Ingar to grant them a diocese in Fjall. Thus, making her lie as near as a truth to the Exarch as possible. She was not sure how the elf would prevail where five Exarchs had not. All things considered, though, those clerics were no masters of intrigue like the old elf was.

*****

Harpis gawked in awe at the vastness of the amassed armada as the merchant ship he booked passage on made its way into Tuath Harbor. Although usually ships would have sailed a straight line into the docks, the merchant’s vessel had to pick its way around anchored brigantines and makeshift docks.

Tuath had constructed a spider’s web of floating wood and sunken piers to enable resupplying and the movement of militiamen onto the ships as quickly as possible. If what Aanaman had told him was right, there were still twenty brigantines posted in Mer to keep watch over that city’s harbor. Even with them gone, almost a hundred ships crowded Tuath Bay and the city harbor.

Harpis’ heart was beating so hard he worried the other passengers could hear it as the ship made the dock. He had decided that his best bet for accomplishing his task would be to play a lost bard. He would profess that having visited the empty Hall, Bravit had sent him there to inquire after the Impresario. Harpis had tradecraft and courage aplenty, but still, he doubted he would be able to happen across Sirul without somehow tripping up.

The possibility of potentially letting the man know at best he was lying or at worst have the truth tortured from him was not acceptable. Instead of deciding to march straight in and ask to speak to the Impresario, Harpis felt much more confident in lying to a mansion guard.

He had no idea how close the handwriting he used for the letter was to Maestro Bravit’s own. He hoped that the Impresario would not care too much for the penmanship in his excitement at reading the words.

He wore baggy white sailor pants, a black leather tunic, and his boat hook belt around his waist. With his fiddle case slung across his back, Harpis hoped he looked every bit the traveling bard. He approached the gate of Tuath Mansion and took a moment to glance behind him at the beautiful, gentle slope the tropical city took down into the bay.

“What’s your business up here, southerner?” One of the guards shouted.

Harpis turned from the cityscape, feigning surprise, and held his hands up in peace to the olive-skinned Tuath native.

“Renau Holden, nomad bard of the Hall,” Harpis introduced himself, using the name of one of the few wandering bards he had met at the Hall.

“For Impresario Benali Tuath, an urgent message from Maestro Bravit at the Hall!” he said with a sweeping bow while extending his hand and the letter it contained.

The guard took the letter and scoffed. “All right, bard, we’ll get your letter to him, now begone from the gate.”

Harpis decided to press his role as traveling bard a little further for good measure. “Are you sure you wouldn’t want to hear a fiddle piece or a song of Tuath, master guards?”

The men waved him off, and one went to the gate of the mansion wall with the letter.

Arken’s frequent words rang in his head. “Always be who they expect you to be,” the spymaster would say.

Feeling he had done his lie justice and honored his teacher, he quickly made for the road to the Hall.

Some hours later, he blew a sigh of relief at the sight of Benali Tuath making his way out of the city. His tree branch perch provided him a good view of the three miles or so it would take Benali to reach his position.

The time gave him ample opportunity to see if anyone followed or escorted Benali. Harpis had made sure that the letter he left for Benali would equally motivate Sirul or Myrlman, who were likely to read it first, to send the Impresario to the Hall.

Come quickly. I discovered a gifted song in my readings. It may drastically aid the forces of Tuath in coming battles.

-Bravit

The Impresario rode alone. Harpis fought off paranoia and decided this was not surprising given that the man was deep in his state and headed on a half day’s ride to a place that had Tuath militiamen posted as guards.

Once Benali passed immediately below his tree branch perch, Harpis whispered to him, “Impresario.”

Benali Tuath nearly fell off his startled horse as Harpis dropped from the branches into the road and looked around in surprise. “Gods above! Harpis, what in the name of The Siren are you doing here? Did Bravit write to you, too?”

Harpis cleared his throat awkwardly. “I need you to trust me, Impresario. I penned the letter, not Bravit. I needed you out of the city.”

Benali glared at Harpis and began worriedly looking around.

“Impresario, do you still serve the island, or are your loyalties to Tuath alone?” Harpis asked as the two men made their way into the woods off the road.

Benali looked insulted. “Of course, I serve the island above my home city. I swore an oath to the people of our land when I became Impresario. All the people. I am admittedly in a tough spot with my late cousin’s paranoid son as governor. I had to close The Hall just to avoid the abuse of the bards. Why would you ask, and why would you believe me, regardless?”

Harpis watched every movement of the man’s eyes and face, looking for any sign of dishonesty.

“I believe you because I have trusted you since the day I began at the Hall. I also have no choice. If you choose to leave here and tell Myrlman what I am about to tell you, my life is forfeit. Without a horse to outrun you, I do not think I would make it out of Tuath alive if I could not trust you. Most importantly, the people of this island need you, and I cannot deliver you to aid them if I could not trust you enough to come deep into Tuath myself to find you,” he answered.

The Impresario’s shoulders relaxed a little. “What then, Harpis, why all the secrecy?”

Harpis first told of his encounter at the Hall. He hoped that in revealing his actions against the Tuath militiamen and the fight at the Hall, he would be able to gauge further where Benali’s loyalties were.

“I need you to be at Fjall in a week. It should be doable with the horse you ride, take the back roads out of Tuath and into Ravnice to avoid detection. Will you do that?” He asked, satisfied he could trust the man.

Benali Tuath tilted his head in confusion. “Why would I go to Fjall?”

“Because without you there, we may not be able to save this island from the tyranny of your cousin. Thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, of people, may die if he carries on, and people will forsake The Hall for having not acted on behalf of the people,” Harpis answered.

The Impresario stiffened at the threat to his institution’s reputation and his legacy.

“Myrlman won’t expect you back until tomorrow at the earliest. You should have plenty of a head start on anyone he sends after you. He does not know where you are truly heading, and that ignorance, most of all, should keep you safe,” Harpis said to reassure the Impresario.

Harpis desperately wanted to ask about Sirul but until they were safely in Fjall he knew it wise not to inquire about the assassin.

“I will ride for Fjall. It is the one city I have never visited, and the fate of men on this island seems as good a reason as any other,” Benali said before giving a concerned look at Harpis. “How will you get there safely?” he asked.

Despite the trust conveyed in the comforting smile that he gave the Impresario, Harpis’ training at The Syndicate stopped him from being too revealing. “I have my ways. I will see you in a week.”

*****

Arch Mage Uridyll was reading quietly in his quarters when the knock at the door interrupted his concentration.

“Come,” he instructed. When he saw Stone Mage Vennil and Stone Sage Mara, he visibly perked up. He had been hoping they would return with news of the mask for some time. His expression changed to one of confusion when he saw Stone Mage Lorkin’s dwarven apprentice from the annex in Fjall walk in behind them.

“Arch Mage, we have word from Stone Mage Lorkin,” Mara said.

Uridyll immediately straightened in his seat. “Well, get on with it.”

“It seems the dwarves have unearthed an enchanted relic deep in the mines beneath Fjall. It is said to have unknown power, and he seeks your consultation immediately,” Vennil explained.

The Arch Mage shot a look at the apprentice standing between the sage and mage. “Well, what is it that has our usually demure and secluded friend flustered enough to send you here and ask for me in person?”

The apprentice only shrugged. “My apologies, Arch Mage, but he won’t even tell any of us. He has been in his office for days. He says the aura of magic around it is blinding but wouldn’t offer any other details.”

The details did not matter. It was enough to hear that the typically immovable, unemotional rock of a mage was stirred to such excitement.

Besides, Uridyll would also like to have a conversation at length with the dwarf mage regarding a particular mask the staff in the Tower of Stone had so recklessly lost. After all, Lorkin and his small contingent of dwarves and gnomes had been practicing stone magic longer than most humans in the college had been alive, and Lorkin was the only mage still living who had fought in the War of Magi.

Pulling himself from his contemplation, Uridyll addressed his visitors. “We leave tomorrow, and all three of you are coming with me. Perhaps Lorkin will be of some help regarding our other concerns as well.”

The last sentence was said while shooting a glare at Stone Sage Mara and Stone Mage Vennil.

After they left, he let his gaze fall to the leather bag of oil and the tinder striker, lying unused on his desk for years. Given the violence of recent days, perhaps it would not hurt to bring it along.

In his quarters and around most of Mer, he could call forth his maelstrom of a fire familiar from the tiniest of flames. But, in Fjall, where enchanted stones and not torches or lanterns lit most rooms, or on a ship on the sea or river, the Arch Mage would struggle to find a flame from which to beckon it.