Kindly edited by @CollinHarrison4

Striker guided his mare by her reins as he walked with his head down. He looked for signs of a force crossing the trail. It was the day before the night of no moon, and the sun had already started its descent. Scouts, or the Answer himself, should have crossed the path if they arrived from the south. It was a guess, yet covering the entire circle around the temple would take three men, not one.

Deer had crossed, also a wolf or perhaps a wild dog. Nothing with the weight of a man, much less many, had crossed the trail in days. He had come upon a campsite that was two days old at most - two or three travelers most likely, with tracks leading from the path and returning after short excursions into the trees that were indicative of the need for relief, not reconnaissance or assault.

Striker began to wonder if he should move northward. The trees thickened in that direction - good cover for an approach to the temple, yet tricky to traverse. A force of any size would have to have begun early and still need to cross the path he was on. It would be best if they were staged deep now if that were the desired approach. There were no signs of it.

He began to worry that the Answer had circled about long ago, traveling well out of his way to approach from the north. Striker only knew of one entrance to the temple, and it was on the south-facing wall. The Answer would be a fool to attempt to climb the walls.

"Mayhap, he is," Striker whispered to himself. He could not imagine anyone not Unseen approaching the temple from an un-doored side. To approach unaccosted, the simplest solution was for a force to use the road disguised as merchants. Even then, it could only be a few. That could very well be the Answer's plan. Futile now that the Brethren were aware.

Striker sighed as he neared the end of his eastward trek. He was sure the temple now lay to the northwest, a good way through the trees. He turned about and began the journey back for the third time, again looking for evidence he may have missed on his previous passes. Perhaps they would ride forward boldly, never attempting stealth. If that were the case, he would have to stay near where the trail crossed the main road. Time was no longer a friend, so difficult choices had to be made.

Lady snorted in a way Striker recognized. She smelled something, and her attempt at slowing meant it was ahead. "Shh," Striker cooed, fading back to stroke her neck as his eyes scanned ahead. The trail turned fifty paces in front of him, disappearing into the foliage. His nose caught a waft of what the mare smelled. Not what he expected, for it was the scent of the washed - someone who had not traveled far from flowery water. He mounted quickly.

"Unhorse yourself." The command came from behind. Striker craned his neck to see a bevy of white robes blocking the trail. He looked forward, and another group, the windward ones he first smelled, approached. Twenty at a quick count, with swords bared. They were hunting as well.

There was no escape, not with the thick foliage to each side. The sounds of horses approaching from the east confirmed the futility of running. He dismounted.

"Your eminences," Striker said, bowing to the set from which the command emanated. He turned around and bowed again. "I am not worthy of the Goddess' blessing."

"None are worthy," a white robe replied. He had a thin mustache that curled upward at the ends, looking like a smile that fought with the frown below. "Though all those that seek the blessing are welcome."

"Your purpose here?" another Brother asked. He was shorter and broader of shoulder.

"I scout a path for my King," Striker said. "He has tasked me to secure a route that limits risk." He swallowed his fear and replaced it with a fraudulent purpose, one not easily refuted.

"You have paced it twice this day," the stocky Brother said. Their knowing was upsetting, almost as disturbing as the fact they were far from the temple. The Answer would not get near. They had ringed the temple at a range even Striker did not expect.

"Have I strayed into something I should not have?" Striker asked. "If so, I will seek another route." Riders approached on eight horses, each one wearing a white robe. They were out in force before the sun had even fallen. The Answer stood no chance, and now there would be no warning.

"And who is your king?" the stocky Brother asked.

"King Mansard Gregory," Striker replied with faux confusion. "Is there another, your eminence?"

The smiling mustache rolled his eyes and looked toward the stocky Brother. "Take him to the temple. The truth of him will be decided there."

"I am expected to report soon, your eminence," Striker argued. A useless maneuver, but he would not forgive himself if he did not try.

"You will be late," the stocky Brother said and waved some of the riders forward. Striker sighed as he was forced to remount Lady. His escort, four each in front and back, led him directly to the main road, then onward to the temple. He had failed.

Kelton sat on the buckboard as the wagon driver struggled not to find every rut in the road. The wagon's weight demanded four horses to pull, though, to a passerby, the rear looked empty. It was a weakness of the plan. He had not thought of the added weight making the seemingly barren wagon look sluggishly heavy. It was a good thing he had chosen this night - one without a moon.

The wagon in the lead turned as it approached an intersection that bordered a tannery if Kelton's nose was any guide. It was a preordained break. Half the force went north as Kelton's wagon continued west. If all worked well, they would surround the building and find it poorly guarded.

Kelton moved one hand over the other as the driver concentrated on the barely visible road. He clenched his fists to slow the nerves that were sending tremors along his arms. So much was at stake, and his willingness to risk others was beginning to weigh heavy. It had been easier to plan than it was proving to execute. There were only tiny doubts a day ago. Now they loomed large and it took all his will to ignore them. If the Brethren did not act as expected, many good men would die. Some may die in any account. It was too late to alter course - the lead wagon would soon be out of sight and acting on its own. He could not sacrifice them to pay heed to his misgivings. With a deep breath, he recommitted his mind - the plan would work.

Striker sat on a barrel, one of the many stacked near the temple doors. He suspected they were newly delivered and kept outside in an abundance of caution. Never had he seen so many Brethren. They moved in groups of ten or more, entering the trees and traveling the roads. Some left while other batches returned like guards who had ended their rotation. He shivered in the cold darkness of the growing night, the lack of fire increasing the frigid feel. If only they had not tied his hands behind him, he could close his cloak and shield himself from the chill. Magna'est paced before Striker, as he had since the sun had fallen. Striker imagined he saw some fear in the movements.

"There are some of you who know me, your Eminence," Striker said as he had done repeatedly. He made it partway through the list of the names he could remember from past excursions with the army when Magna'est's open hand struck his face. It was the third time he had been hit - the second from the leader of the Brethren. He was pushing too hard.

"Silence," Magna'est ordered.

Striker thought he had convinced them he was on a mission for the king. The end of the questions seemed to indicate their acceptance, yet still he was bound. He now assumed he would remain still and on the barrel throughout the night, a witness to the end of the Answer.

He sighed in defeat. The trees were nothing but vague shadows; even white robes seemed black on such a night. The Brethren would surely sense the Answer's men well before they neared, and Striker could do nothing. He should have cut the king's throat when he had the chance. After the prince dies, Striker will become a problem that must be buried. What little revenge he could have managed was gone. Like the Brethren, Gregory will certainly fortify his castle against another incursion.

An idea came to Striker as he watched Magna'est pace. Perhaps it was not too late to take some revenge. It would cost him his life, but that was of little consequence - the memory of his sister hanging from a tree made the payment fair enough. The moment he saw the Answer's end, he would share what he knew of the king. Gregory will be ended, if not by Striker's hand, then by the king's conspirators. Striker smiled into the darkness. Let them kill each other.

Corleon shivered in the wind that flowed unhindered from the sea. The smell of dead fish was almost as bad as the breeze. He sat on the ground in a small alley with his back against a tavern wall, looking as if he had a cup too many. His fellow Brethren were equally disguised in homespun clothing, scattered among the seedy night populace. It was difficult to filter out the blob of intent in the tavern and concentrate on the row of warehouses. There was movement now and again, though the diversion Hillbrand warned of had yet to develop. Corleon knew it would happen fast. He would let the fires ignite, then fall upon the perpetrators and hopefully expose the Seven, or at least those near to them.

A man stumbled down the road past Corleon's position. There was no intent, only a dark meandering man-shaped shadow. Corleon smiled as the act of his Brother was convincing and mirrored other late-night revelers. They had left their robes to not risk exposure and donned filthy garments doused in ale. It was exciting in a way. He relished the idea of exploding into action at the proper time. It had been a long time since he had set an ambush.

The door to the tavern opened and Corleon felt two exit, their intent muddled by drink.

"It is near," a man stammered. "I tell you, it is near time."

"Bah," the other responded. "A fable at best." There was a brief shuffling of feet as one or the other almost lost their footing. "There be no coin in it, of that I am sure."

"Nay, nay," the first man argued, though his tone lowered to near a whisper. "It is the Answer, and he gathers many." There was a burp that echoed oddly as the two became more distant. "If I had not three wee ones, I would..." The words of ale-induced bravado faded into gibberish as they drifted away from Corleon's position.

Corleon gritted his teeth, wishing he could correct such talk without exposing himself. There was no Answer, only a fool who played at it. Soon, the demon will die and take the tale with him. Corleon wondered how many winters it would take to erase the memory from the land. It mattered not, for he had an eternity to find out.

Rolic walked carefully, not wanting to spill his gift. Steadiness was no longer something he took for granted, for even a slight slip of a foot sent searing pain along his side. His wound had festered inside, scribing darkened trails under the skin in a web of sickness that now covered a fist-sized portion of his chest. A fitting end - penance for a decision made long ago. Odd how it seemed so wise then and so foul now.

"Cannot sleep?" Rolic whispered as he approached the dying fire and its lone companion.

"Aye," Juno replied. "It is unnerving when Kelton is away." She looked up through the trees and into the moonless sky. "Especially this night."

"I have brought tea." Rolic held forth a mug. Thankfully, she relieved him of both mugs so that he could cringe his way to the ground in a less sloppy manner. "I thank you," he said when he reclaimed his cup.

Juno took a sip. "He worries on you."

"Undeservedly," Rolic admitted, shaking his head. "It is I who rightfully worries on him. I, too, find it unnerving, this mission of his..." He let the rest of his reservations fade away. There was no purpose in frightening Juno now.

"You think him a fool," Juno said, poorly hiding a smirk behind another sip.

"In this, aye," Rolic said. "I do not doubt his skill, though I cannot fathom what he has devised that will not be broken the moment it begins." He took a sip of his tea, then wrapped the mug in both hands to absorb the warmth. "I fear for him."

"It is a good plan," Juno said.

Rolic shook his head. "It is a risky thing and spoken too loudly. We are fools to think all here see as we do. The Brethren are likely aware, making the difficult task impossible." To Rolic's surprise, Juno stifled a laugh by covering her mouth.

"You do not fear traitors?" Rolic asked.

Juno shook her head. "Kelton is counting on them."