Set

Dear Mother:

I got the job and a six-month advance. Be happy for me; if not, for the receipt of eighteen hundred crowns I have attached. Lady Kathanhiel has lent me her personal courier. She is the most amazing person I have ever known. No offence.

Soon we'll be going north to find the lair of Rutherford, which will take anywhere between a season and a decade. Yes, a decade. Do you still think Elisaad a type of exotic cheese? You do don't you. Then be assured your son is going to become the greatest tyromancer in all the lands. You don't know what a tyromancer is either do you.

Spend the money on something nice. Like curtains for my window. I would like that when I get back, please.

Take care,

Kastor, esquire to Kathanhiel.

There are a hundred menial errands that have to be sorted out before we leave, one of which is the ever-growing inventory list that the quartermaster had delegated shamelessly onto me. Apparently, Kathanhiel requires thirteen weights of bear fat, fifteen pre-sealed envelopes, twelve(twelve!) waterskins, three rolls of leather inlays, two boxes of lavender incense, two boxes of dried Island tea, seven (seven!) jar of chrysanthemum oil, twelve measures of a gooey balm called 'tundra essence'…

Then there are the horses, which I, poor city-dweller who has only ever ridden the soles of his feet, am now responsible for. The name of Kathanhiel's white stallion happens to be Bobby; this magnificent animal – with a mane of moonlight and legs more muscular than the jowls of a dragon – has the same name as the three-legged mutt that picks at the trash on the corner of my street.

My own horse – a chestnut that chews on anything from leather to rope to my gauntlet that just came out of the smithy two days ago – I have named Killisan, after the World Devourer in the Hymn of Creation.

The King was supposed to be here to see us off, but a week before the departure ceremony the youngest princess, apparently a born explorer, caught pneumonia after taking a morning dip in the palace pond. Consequently, His Majesty has decided to cancel the event so he can look after his daughter. This is because, of course, twenty royal physicians do not provide enough medical expertise.

Kathanhiel, as it turns out, doesn't really care.

'It is for the best,' she says. 'He's afraid I might try to borrow his men again. Did you know he's building another winter palace? Something about flooded basements, I am told.'

Haylis, on the other hand, is crestfallen. Every night she has charged into my room, insisting that I tell her whether the lacy dress would go well with the lacy gloves, whether the crown prince will like her hair, so on and so forth, then she would berate me on how stupid and irrelevant my opinions are the moment I give them.

'But what about my nightingale dress?!' she cries one night, as if such grave injustice should elicit my sympathy. 'I bought it just for the ball!'

I try to be reasonable. 'Shouldn't you be getting ready for our quest? How have you prepared?'

'I didn't sign the contract, stupid. Go do your chores.'

This is coming from someone who has spent her days lounging around in the garden, ordering her personal troop of servants to pack her bags and picking out what clothes to bring. Without signing the contract, she is not obligated to do anything esquire-ly, and by the looks of it she most definitely doesn't need the three hundred crowns.

So why is she coming along?

The day before we are set to leave Kathanhiel calls me into her room. She stays in the royal wing of the palace, which is normally reserved for, well, royalty, so no need to elaborate on the luxury. Just look at that gold-threaded carpet; in her presence I tend to stare at the floor, hence the noticing of the carpet first and foremost.

'Yes my lady?'

'Come closer. Let me have a look at my new knight.'

Kathanhiel is wearing a simple white dress. Beautiful. To stand next to her in my sorry excuse of a knight's armour – plain leather cuirass, drooping, overlarge pauldrons, and genital-crushing studded trousers – seems like a poor parody.

'Those seem a bit tight,' she candidly observes.

'No – yes, but it's fine, I'll – I'll grow in to it.'

She keeps a straight face and points to a map spread out on her table. 'This is our road. I expect you to memorise it by tomorrow.'

'Yes my lady…but shouldn't Haylis be here too?'

'She has her own duties to attend to.'

'She does?'

Kathanhiel ignores the question.

'Rutherford resides somewhere in the Endless Ranges. Soon his brood will start venturing south. Likely that they already have. The sooner he is slain, the better.'

She points to a dot to the north.

'First we go to the city of Iris. A friend who has been tracking their movement will meet us there. Depending on what he tells us, we might take one the three routes leading north.' She traces three lines on the map. 'The forest road is likely out the question. Dragon fire in a sea of kindling – a pyre for fools.'

'The Imperial Highway will be the quickest. However, we will be easily spotted, and they may strike us at will.' She grins – not a smile, but a tigress baring her teeth.

'A safer option is to travel by ferry from the Ford, against the flow of River Hei. Dragons tend to avoid large bodies of water, for they dislike looking upon their own reflections.'

I interject stupidly. 'Why? They're not ugly.'

Kathanhiel smiles, and my heart flutters like a one-winged moth.

'However, this storm season has carried on well past its due, and the water is yet turbulent. I suspect it will be slow and perilous to head upstream, but no point speculating now.'

She taps the marker of a little castle at the foot of the far north mountains.

'In any case, we shall resupply at Fort Iborus, where my Mirror Phalanx has a garrison of thirty thousand.' She catches the look on my face. 'Compared to the enemies we face it is no great army. After that, we head into the mountains and do whatever it takes to find Rutherford's lair. I will give you a map of the Endless Ranges. Memorise it, then burn it.'

'Burn it?' I ask.

'In the past few years the Cult of the Dragon has flourished in the north. They…dislike me. It will not do for them to learn of our plans.'

'What a bunch of idiots.'

She places a hand on my arm. Kathanhiel places a hand on my arm. I think I might perish.

'Not everyone thinks good of me like you do, Kastor.'

'B-b-b-but what if they f-f-f-follow us?'

She taps the scabbard of the sword leaning on her desk. 'Kaishen is no stranger to the blood of humans.'

I spend the night pouring over the two maps. The one of the Realms is impeccably scaled and annotated, typical of the Imperial Press. The one of the Ranges is hand-drawn, neat but difficult to read: there are no lines of elevation, no key, only curves showing the shapes of mountains and many blocks of tiny writing squeezed between the lines.

Deep in the north, written on a rectangular plateau, is strange obituary: Here lies Elisaad, he of venerable madness. If only we met but once.

On a crater-like circle further south: The Stone Graves, sacred to the little giants. The pillars provide sanctuary against dragon fire. If only I went alone.

The River Hei is a thin dotted line winding through the peaks. The longest annotation is found on a mountaintop opposite the river. Here, unique among all the markings, is a stick figure wearing a circle-and-crescent hat. The text underneath is faintly smudged:

Here lies he who shall remain nameless until the end of my days. I took from him the Bane of Dragons, and left my heart in its place. One day I shall follow the sound of its beating to his hearth in the evergreen, and muster the courage to beg for his forgiveness. Wait for me. Please, don't leave me all alone.