By morning, his bed was drenched with cold sweat. Heron sighed, reaching for a tunic and standing to dry himself with the garment resting plied on the nightstand. He scanned the medicinal cloth that tied the wound on his thigh. He'd been reluctant to face it, but the night sweats and recurrent headaches didn't lie. The wound was infected. Still, it was out of the question he entered the sickhouses ever again.

According to Master Salmior and his father, all residents of the domain were being investigated for potential ties with the rebellion— Heron preferred to keep the record of the guard patrols' incompetence on that front fresh in his memory. Heron recognized, too, it was unlikely another nurse waited for him at the entrance of the eastern palace with a blade and a nightly horrid smile, ready to sever his head. His skin prickled at the thought of ever stepping into the sickhouses of the domain again. That was alibi enough. He chose not to reconsider.

A fair compromise found its way naturally: after two days without properly washing himself, the stickiness of his body required a bath. The help of the servants working in the bathing room, instead of the nurses, was a good alternative.

There was a moment of general halt of the servants as soon as he stepped inside the bathing rooms, the air thick with steam and tension. He reasoned himself: after witnessing his descent into madness, the workers were reluctant even to turn his way. After the initial shock, each servant carried out their tasks, although heads still down. As if ready to bow if need be. They removed the excess water from the floor, refilled the bathing tubs, and measured out hot and cold water for agreeable baths.

Halted in the middle of the room, Heron observed. An old servant with grey braided hair and a face humbled by wrinkles cleaned excess water with a mop she squeezed dry into a bucket. Heron knew she was aware of his presence as he paced toward her but she kept complete focus on her task. Still, she was the first to speak, even before taking Heron's full sight. "Lord." Her face was the picture of inquiry as if it was unnatural for her to be noticed.

"Heron yma da," Heron said.

The woman stood quickly and performed a bow again. "I know, Lord," she said.

"And you are?"

"Nayna."

"You have anything that could help heal a wound?"

"We have leaves that help to heal, my Lord. But a nurse would better help you."

"Do your best," Heron said. He turned around to inspect the servants in the room. He preferred privacy while washing himself. "Would you ask the others to leave, please?" He also anticipated it would be painful to have her hands on his wound.

The woman nodded. "Of course, my Lord."

During the time it took for Nayna to escort the others out of the bathing room in murmurs, to clean her hands and retrieve the leaves, Heron undressed and tested the temperature of the tubs. When Nayna returned, Heron was bare, body dipped into the water up to neck height.

The woman first took care of the stink-loaded clothes Heron had left scattered on the floor. When she came back, she tested the water of the bath again. "Are you comfortable, Lord?"

"Perfect."

"Let me see the wound." She leaned against the edge of the tub for a closer view. Heron flexed his leg, bringing his thigh and the stab wound to the surface of the water. "Spirits of the Order have mercy," the woman said. She inspected the injury. "What caused it?"

"A knife stab," Heron said. "Don't ask more questions, please."

The servant brought her hands to Heron's leg with a grip that took Heron by surprise. But what came after was worse. She poured the content of the mixture of leaves and warm water directly on the wound, steading Heron's leg every time the pain forced him to budge. The green mixture burned the flesh with a fire that seemed to spread to the mind. If he had strength enough, Heron would have broken the edge of the tubs in his clutch.

When she finished, she remained silent, while Heron kept his head leaning back above the tub's edge. She urged Heron to move to the adjacent bathtub. Sensing her intervention had left Heron exhausted, she helped him to bathe him with scented oils, cleaned him with soft cotton rugs, dried him, helped dressed him, and escorted him to his chambers, not leaving the room before Heron was deep in sleep.

He was awakened by persistent knocks on the door of his chamber. The solar-arc had already moved past the zenith point. He rushed to open the door. Although the pain and the fatigue still lingered, he felt lighter that morning. "Tutor," Heron exclaimed.

"I expected you would come to the library first thing in the morning," Arai said, already entering the room. Heron noted two old scripts sticking out of his robe pocket and a book in his hand.

"I must admit I was worried since you seemed rather unwell yesterday. But I have just learned your business must be due to the marriage taking place soon. It's incredible how your people value your secrecy. Simple blooded have such impure eyes and ears that they should not hear nor even see the marriage of their rulers. I digress. If you are not busy at the moment..." He was already dragging an armchair, taking a seat, and spreading his scripts above a round table in the middle of the room.

"Well," Heron said, "do take a seat by all means." He sat at his turn.

"Your manners never failed me," Arai retorted. "I will get straight to the point: I read through the bibliography on the Forgotten soldiers and reviewed material from the Great Wars during the past five centuries."

Heron refrained from asking how Arai had found time to read through all that material when all he'd managed was to doze twice and a bath.

"Well, it's rather good news, Lord," Arai added. "Technically, our Onus Krot is not completely wrong, if not by a detail." He pointed to one of the script rolls spread open. A subtitled map locating all the monuments in the royal domain. The librarian had drawn a circle around the statue of the 12th forgotten soldier, next to it was the date 'Year 12 of 31st Tor of Ceres'.

"It matches the date that appears in the Onus," he said. "That means that..." he checked his notes, "Davir Her Arun, son of Arun, twenty-one years old at the time of his death, was indeed a 12th forgotten soldier. But he didn't perish during the Ukewian war, like the other Forgotten soldiers we know of. All History books written before the 31st Tor of Ceres report only 11 Forgotten soldiers."

"That means the 12th was added in the Onus five centuries later?"

"It appears so, Lord." The librarian opened the small book he carried. "This is the record of all the guard captains that have worked for the Monarchy here in the capital." He guided Heron's gaze with a finger until it stopped down the name Arun Herat Lin. "Captain of the royal guard from Year 5 to year 12 of 31st Tor of Ceres," he read. "He previously served as a guard in the domain, since he was sixteen years old. He married and had one son, but their names appear nowhere in the records."

"That son was..."

"It all points to the obvious, Lord. Davir Herat Arun was that son. It appears father and son died the same year. And that same year Davir Her Arun was anointed as a Forgotten soldier, which is rather fast. The process usually took from five to ten years for all the most commonly known forgotten soldiers. After wars, building monuments for soldiers was never the priority.

"I looked at all the obvious places where I could find information about the soldier and his father. But there's nothing in the records. When you consider that, it becomes clear why there's no distinction between the Forgotten soldiers of the Ukewian war and the 12th one. Something wiped out the information, it could be a fire or a flood, I am looking into it."

All of a sudden Arai's expression brightened. "If something good comes out of this, I will present my findings to one of the regional Academies, perhaps obtain some compensation for it, or even to the council of Wisemen here in the capital. But since Lord's been the one to find the mistake, Lord should have a say on that."

Heron hadn't expected to stumble upon historical inconsistencies when he'd followed his instincts to the Onus Krot. As a historian and culturalist, Arai knew Ceri's history as his own, he'd cracked through the mass of incomprehensible information faster than Heron would have been able to do over the years. But Arai ignored the supernatural side of the story, the fact that the subject of his study was alive, there in the royal domain.

"Of course, tutor," Heron said. "I did none of the work."

It was the first time Heron saw Arai smile. "The Ancients pay, Lord. I had given up this type of recognition long ago. My research work had never really been well received by any of the main Regional Academies nor the National Council of Wisemen. But this—" he shook his head, bright-eyed. "This could be grand, Lord."

At this point, Heron was only half-listening to the librarian. Arai's task consisted of finding names and written references. But Heron couldn't go back three centuries in time to find Davir's father and his unnamed mother. Unless there could be written references, which Arai was more inclined to properly find. The question his reasoning uncorked on fell off his tongue, "You believe in the supernatural, tutor?"

"I—" he stuttered. "It's about the soothsayer I suggested you consulted?" Before Heron could speak, he continued. "I have seen things in the past definitely, but I have never been faced with anything concrete. I should say, I don't exclude the possibility that there is more than what the eyes can see." He stopped and blinked. "I should also say that's quite a turn from the subject at hand."

"I consulted the soothsayer you suggested, yes." Heron stared directly into Arai's eyes. He was already nodding because he knew. "The supernatural is real. Davir Herat Arun, the 12th forgotten soldier is alive." Arai's armchair budged with his startlement. "He's in the royal domain, working as my guard. The soothsayer was the one to reveal it."

His eyes narrowed; it seemed the tutor was about to utter a dozen questions at once. "Your guard...the rescued amnesiac from the last Chill?" His hands flung to his mouth. He was shaking. Voice partly muffled, he said. "The soothsayer revealed that?"

"Not exactly," Heron said.

"Are you certain, Lord?"

"No," Heron said, frustrated. "I can't be certain of anything. But I choose to trust myself because I have no choice. If it strengthens my argument, I assure you I couldn't have found an inconsistency on the Onus Krot by myself, tutor."

"That's a point," Arai said. "I was surprised, too. So, the soldier is the one you plan on using to sort things out?" he asked, "about Servyna, I mean." After Heron nodded, he carried on, "And because things always need to be difficult for me, I suppose the soldier remains oblivious about his past?"

"Completely."

"Well, Ancients forgive us for what we are about to undertake. For credibility purposes, I will be keeping any information about the supernatural away from my official research. But I'll share all my finds with you, Lord." Arai glanced at the clock on the wall. "Venom!" he stood. "Excuse my poor manners, Lord. I must go." He gathered his documents. "Didn't plan on staying this long. The library is still closed. We must take some time together to talk to your soldier. Come to me, Lord." As he rushed to the door of the chambers, one book fell on the ground. Heron went to catch it. But Arai gathered it faster.

As soon as he was alone, Heron's thoughts immediately led him to liquor. But if he drank now, he would be too exhausted for the ceremony to come. He was glad his fatigue called for some inertia. He rested because when he would stand again, it would be to seal his union with the daughter of the Owynis Regency.

_____

Davir had been at guard at the eastern gates, atop the barricade of the royal domain when the Blackmen came to his encounter. "Orders of the Brigadier Jallon to meet him in the office of the barracks." Master Salmior had promised immediate correction action after he'd been brought out of the forest with Heron. But Davir understood right away trouble awaited him if a four-man patrol of superior guards needed to be sent behind him to escort him to the brigadier.

He conceded. One of the superior guards took his position of guard, standing next to the warning bell lodged inside a square carved on the wall, his gaze upon the forest, stretching down up to the plains. "He assumes your position here until the brigadiers had finished deliberating with you," one of the men—seemingly the leader of the small patrol—said. He was, too, the one to conduct Davir to the stairs linking the hallways of the top of the barricade to the domain's grounds. The other two followed hands on sword pommels, waist full of explosive gems. Like his life in the domain had begun.

A horse had been waiting for him at the base of the barricade, keeping the same scheme they'd adopted to descend from the ramparts, the patrol leader led the way to the office of the barracks. The other two adapted their cadences to Davir's pace. In the barracks, they traversed long hallways intercepted by longer ones where stretched rows of guard's chambers. The office of the guard's officials was at the center of the barracks.

With utmost inconvenience, Jallon's office was a vast square with tall shelves overflowing with archives all in all directions. And since the thought of fire erupting seemed inconceivable for a man of status and influence, fire-lit lanterns littered the room, illuminating it with a painful glare. Davir braced for the discomfort as he advanced deeper inside, catching sight of Sir Salmior. The light hurt his eyes just the same.

Jallon looked at Davir with what appeared like a mixture of pity and frustration. The thought of expanding shadows to get a sense of his intention crossed Davir's mind, but what good could it provide? He'd walked inside the serpent's den long ago. He was inside the barracks, cornered by hundreds of guards, one of the best of them, right in front of him. The horrid realization that he had no leverage...

Because the brigadier's agitation didn't appear to allow him to express his thoughts on the reason why Davir had been brought to the barracks, Sir Salmior, who was conveniently always there to remind Davir of his wrong-doings, cleared his throat and spoke. "Soldier Davir, your behavior has been unacceptable since you've integrated the guard and not on par with the guard's standards on multiple occasions."

Davir counted two occasions, one of which he'd repeat without hesitation and another where the heir had used bribery against him for a night of pleasures in a city tavern. He nodded. "Yes, sir."

"I myself submitted a demand to dismiss you from your functions as a guard here in the domain. It was accepted, praise The Ancients."

The Ancients must really hate Davir then. First his memory, then this.

"That means that from now on, you are not a part of the blue guard anymore." Sir Salmior handed Davir the order of dismissal.

Davir scanned the document, his eyes landing on the sum of money the guard owed him: fifteen silver ceric. The dismissal was far from ideal. He had a poor notion of the value of the money he'd been promised, but he was certainly working for a few weeks and couldn't assure him a city chamber and more than ten days' worth of food. Still, he needed to work a plan to haunt the soothsayer and her companion before they left the capital city—they had been gathering eastern coins after all. He couldn't accomplish that while bowing to the orders of the royal guard. Davir nodded again. Perhaps it was for the better.

Sir Salmior exhaled before continuing. "Brigadier Jallon sees potential in you, however. In collaboration with Brigadier Kerm in the city, he has signed our order of transfer to the green guard. That concerns me less, so will not give my opinion. As it stands your permission to remain in the administrative division of the royal domain expires tonight by deepnight at most. After that, if you remain in the domain, you may never leave it again. That won't be any trouble if the smell of piss and the sight of mold thrill you."

"I have coordinated things with the city brigadier," Jallon said. "There shouldn't be issues in the transfer. He'll send his men to conduct you to the city tonight." After a pondering silence, he added. "Make this opportunity worth it. You are gifted, Davir. I believe you have a lot to offer."

Sir Salmior was rolling his eyes furiously.