12

Oldden Stronghold's inner bailey found the morning well. Winter sunlight streamed through the toothy battlements, rendering the grounds within all manners of reds and russets. The nightmen were in their respective positions, some of them leaning with hats pulled forward, waiting for daymen to wake and relieve them. There were windows abound in the neighboring forts, but all were dark. They'd stay that way a while longer, at least until the bell marked the prime. The cooks would then stir, and their ceaseless chopping and banging would bounce between the graystone walls. 

Alyce treasured the tranquil chill of dawn, but she'd seen it all before. Restlessness had driven her from slumber, bred by a word on the tip of her tongue. It was like she'd forgotten something, something important. She sensed all about as she sat in the dirt, for the hills and the streams, the bogs and the lakes, and for the lights which shone unfailingly. The lights were her favorite. They were living out there in the great big world, underneath mountains, deep within woods, high in the sky, walking on foot— twenty, she knew, though she counted again. Twenty.

Alyce raised a dirty hand. She splayed her fingers as wide as they'd go, and she found him easily in doing so; the crafty Twentieth. Ethos, so called, some monster of sorts. He was eastward, not far from Whitestar Reach. He had a different feel than the others.

Someone shouted her name. Eadric. He was still a ways off by the livestock shanties. Alyce didn't respond, merely lowered her hand and returned to her original task: the retrieval of a stubborn worm, halfwise-burrowed in mud. She risked snapping it in two as she forcefully dragged it free.

It curled and it dangled. "Thought you'd get away, didn't you, mister wyrm?" she asked, squinting one-eyed to embellish her northern mimicry. "Don't be afeard— I may be up early, but I'm no bird. You really ought to thank me for catching you first."

"So this is where you were."

Alyce deigned no glance. "I couldn't sleep."

Eadric squatted in front of her. "Do we need to talk about this again?"

She was supposed to say no, so, "No."

"Good girl." Alyce flinched when he shook back a sleeve, but he only pushed the hair from her eyes, feeling for a fever. Up close, his inexpressiveness gave her chills. "How's your head today?" he asked, seriously. "Is it him again?"

The crafty Twentieth. Of all the lights, Eadric cared naught but five. Alyce was certain he knew what they were. She batted him away and said, "It's the grumpy Leviathan, come to gobble you up."

A smile split into his jaw. "This far into the mainland?"

"Maybe," she huffed, avoiding his gaze. "Maybe he's like the wily tadpole. Maybe he's climbing the crumbling seawalls in search of Redbeard's runaway fleets."

"He'll be searching for a while, then." Eadric's smile subtly grew. He held out his hand for her to take. "Let's go," he said. "We have places to be, people to pester."

Those eyes of his were polished coal, reflective, impenetrable. Pools of black glass. Alyce didn't want to know what thoughts might lurk behind them. His hand, when she took it, had all the warmth of an arachnid. "Where are we going?" she wondered. "The library?"

Eadric led her away. "The undercroft," he replied. "But you already knew that."

Sure, she'd known. Kyrian was waiting for them there, returned at last from the bitter north. She'd been instructed to track him since his departure the year before. "The undercroft is a library," she said, playing the child. "The book piles are taller than me."

"Literary sewage, peanut. It's a scholastic cesspool." 

Eadric suddenly stopped and rooted around through his sleeves— a common practice, a rummage for shells. He'd say that his pockets grew heavy with secrets. Alyce resumed her game while she waited; the worm struggled to free itself, desperate for dirt. "If you're a boy worm, I'll name you Sir Francis," she told it. "Sir Francis the Slimy."

"It's not a boy worm."

"Then I'll name it Lady Swamp Butt."

"It's not a girl, either. It's a worm." He checked a different pocket, too immersed in his search to squander a glance. "Insipid, androgynous, blind as all— ha!" Triumphant, he held a shell high and then shook it at Alyce. "Told you I'd find it."

"Did not."

Eadric shushed her, a finger at his lips, to better hear the message. When its glow had gone to the very last, expended for all but the warm gleam of daybreak, he exchanged the shell for another. Far from its unadorned predecessor, the glass was carved and intricate, resembling an actual ear. Eadric cleared his throat and sang into it, "Ho, Wallace. Lovely day. Be a peach and go ahead with Operation Death to Muskrat. Alert Bagley when it's done."

Flatly, Alyce echoed, "Operation Death to Muskrat?"

He signaled for her to shut up. "Oh, and what on earth did you do to the princess?" he asked. "The girl positively loathes you. Make yourself scarce after Gladius dies or risk getting stoned in the city square." Done with business, he slipped the shell back to where he'd found it and steered Alyce onward, hand on her arm. He sniffed at the air. "When was the last time you bathed?" he asked, as they climbed the stairs. "I can feel your stench in my eyes."

"What's Operation Death to Muskrat?"

Eadric opened the door for her, courteous. "What does it sound like?"

Alyce sent him a passing look. "Like you're plotting to kill someone. Gladius, maybe."

The Keep's night watchman, Rusty Woodward, was fast asleep in the chamber within, chin on his chest, tabletop candle reduced to a pool. He didn't stir when the door banged shut. Alyce entered the corridor to her right without being told. "What's Kyrian doing back in Oldden?" she asked. "I thought he'd been assigned to the Wulfstead leaguer until Founders Day."

Eadric replied, "I called him in early."

Something was off about the stairwell ahead. Alyce slowed, noted the absent lookouts, and stopped in her tracks. "What's going on?" she demanded. "Why's it so quiet in here?"

"The dungeons are emptied. No need for turnkeys."

"How can the dungeons be emptied?"

"By removing its occupants."

Ambiguity. Typical. "But what about all the prisoners?" She'd befriended a few— thieves, mostly, some missing hands from prior offenses. "Did you let them all go?" 

"I had them transferred to a different holding facility."

Perhaps he had use for the space, or perhaps he needed the privacy. It was impossible to tell. Alyce swallowed a knot in her throat and descended the stairwell, wallbound for balance. Even the worm had stilled in her hand, as if in fright. Unthinkingly, she said Eadric's name.

He sounded amused by her apprehension. "Yes, Alyce?"

"Are you angry about something?" His footsteps were a worrying answer; steady, unhurried. She dared a glance when they spilled onto the level below, swimming through amber torchlight. Eadric was looking at her, unreadable. She asked, "Was it something I did?"

After a moment, he smiled and ruffled her hair. "Just focus on Kyrian."

Kyrian. Right. Alyce could only assume she'd been dragged there to corroborate his findings in the north. She ducked away from Eadric's touch and continued, past the cell block, down a second flight of stairs. "I don't like him," she grumbled, turned away. "He's not a nice person."

"Poor thing," he said. "You must feel very conflicted about me."

Eadric's gentility was unpleasant. It was heartfelt, and thus, grotesque. Honestly, she said, "I think you've been alive for too long. I think you're lonely and bored and cruel because of it."

He let out a rare bark of laughter. "Few know me as well as you."

"Stupid. People don't say stuff like that to their captives."

"Oh, that reminds me." Sounds of him rifling. A flutter of paper. "Here," he said, and he slapped a crumpled bit of parchment over her shoulder. "It's from your mother."

Alyce took it, fingers numb. "Thanks."

The undercroft was vaulted and massive, riven by columns. The advanced construct of the levels above was nonexistent, replaced by substandard stonework. It had clearly seen less innocuous uses in true olden times. The northside sconces were lit, plunging all manners of tomes into contrasts. Most was darkness, dusted by ages.

Eadric took the lead and deliberately pushed at a pile of books. Alyce lurched to catch them before they could fall. "Keep up," he called. "It'd be a shame if the rats took off with you."

Alyce scurried after him, one hand clutching her mother's letter, the other clutching the worm.

Kyrian was seated at an old trestle table, fast asleep like everyone else, the only difference being that he'd fallen face-first into the documents he'd been reading. He started awake when Eadric sat down and forced a cough. A bit of parchment adhered to his cheek. "Morning," he greeted, and he yawned overloudly, squinting about. "Or evening. It's impossible to tell down here."

"It's dawn," Eadric said, curtly. "When did you arrive?"

"Midnight or so."

"Did anybody see you?"

"Just Woodward and a couple of nightmen." Kyrian spotted Alyce and leered. He'd lost weight in his time away. "Alyce Thorald," he hailed. "You've hardly aged a day."

She paused by him and sneered. "Jealous?"

"Very. What exactly are you?"

"None of yer earwax."

"I thought you'd have escaped by now."

She brushed by and drew up a stool. "I don't do that anymore."

Kyrian cackled at her. "Someone must have taken you down a couple pegs. Shame."

Alyce resisted the urge to look at Eadric. It had been a sobering experience, of course, the sort she'd never thought to expect, another new link to add to the chain. "There's a piece of paper stuck to your face," she said, rather than get worked up about it. "Stupid."

Kyrian's hand jumped to it. He quickly returned the scrap to the messy table and turned on Eadric, embarrassed. He demanded, "Isn't this supposed to be a council briefing?"

Eadric smirked at him. "Like we'd ever hold a briefing this early in the morning. This business is private." He opened his hands, forgiving, misleading. "Let's start with why you're a day late in getting here," he proposed, sounding reasonable. "Surely there must have been some kind of emergency for you to have so much time unaccounted for."

"Delays," Kyrian said. "You know how it is with them."

Alyce knew otherwise, and she promptly butt in. "He detoured in Wayward, city of lechers," she said, and when Kyrian sent her a narrow glare, she smiled back and threw up her chin. "Didja spend too much time with those homely thick-necked northos, Kyrian?"

He looked like he wanted to strike her. "I was resting at an inn, you little snot," he said. "It's not like the whole damn settlement's red."

Eadric chuckled. "Now, now, Kyrian, what would Yvette say?"

"Go on and ask her," he scoffed. "She's been moldering in the hills for years."

"Ah, yes. The diphtheria." Eadric let it go, amused in one moment, serious in the next. He clasped his hands together, very professional. "Then let's move on," he suggested. "How would you describe the situation in Wulfstead?"

Kyrian tidied his papers, nearly upturning his ale in so doing. "Go see for yourself," he said. "You obviously don't trust me. Or just pick at my brain and be done with it."

"I'm not the delegate here. You are."

Kyrian sighed. "They want their own land," he said. "Like the Battlefrosts."

"Nobody's like the Battlefrosts." Eadric took Kyrian's cup and studied its contents. "I'd like to know more about this camp they've set up near the Rift."

Kyrian made a sound of contempt. "It's nothing special," he replied. "Crops take to the soil there much better than they do in Wulfstead."

Alyce carefully set down the worm and unfolded her mother's letter. The paper was crisp. "It's also dig site," she said, only partway listening. "They've found iron. Lots of it."

The hissing sconces weren't noise enough to compensate for the silence. Alyce glanced and found the men staring at one another. She'd never have said she knew Kyrian well, but she recognized the look in his eyes. Eadric was placidly swirling the ale, cheek cushioned in the heel of his hand.

"You bought this ale in Wayward, didn't you?"

"That's right," Kyrian replied. "How could you tell?"

Casually, he upended the cup on the table. "It reeks of depravity."

Kyrian made no attempt to protect his documents, nor did he move when the ale dribbled off of the table and into his lap. "They've refuted our claim to the mineral rights," he said, voice low in an effort to keep the peace. "They say they're entitled to it because the vein was discovered in Bonesteel territory."

"They have no territory. They're getting ahead of themselves." Eadric subsided and rubbed at his temple, fierceness bleeding out with his breath. "Are they dissatisfied with bog iron?"

"It's bog iron, Eadric. Nobody likes bog iron."

"The people of this era are lazy," he muttered, annoyed. "There's iron slick in the north. I've seen it. It's there. It's a renewable, prevalent resource. If they want ore, they have to get it through the proper channels like everyone else."

"What exactly do you want me to do?"

"Only a fool or a traitor would cover up such glaring signs of an uprising," he answered. "Accurate distribution is what keeps the balance, Kyrian. It must be proportionate with the growth of our communities. That's how Hans did it in his day, that's how Rohan did it after, and that's how we've been doing it since." Eadric shooed him. "You're done. Don't argue with me."

Alyce couldn't see the door from where she was sitting, but the sound of it cut the discussion short. Someone began picking their way through the labyrinthine undercroft, unfamiliar enough with the space to be having a difficult time of it. Michael Ozwell, she knew, commander of the Oldden blackhounds and companion of Karna's greatest pother, Rhysa Laranis. A fine man, all things considered. He never came across as unkind. The torchlight made him wince as he emerged unkempt from the shadows, dark of eyes and hair and wear. Tension hung in the air like mist.

He slowed a bit, squinting, uncertain. "Should I come back later?"

"No," Eadric replied, sounding less than enthused. "Kyrian was just leaving."

Kyrian stiffly rose from the bench. He reached for his ruined papers and stopped, fingers hovering over the mess. Without looking at Eadric, he asked, "What can I do to make this right?"

"Don't leave the hold unless I say so. Don't even leave your room."

His fingers curled and fell away. "Understood."

"Excellent." Eadric pointed him off, indifferent. "Now go get some rest, and avoid being seen. I'll come find you once I've had some time to properly think things through."

Michael moved out of Kyrian's way— a challenging task, given the significant lack of space. Ear cocked, thumb hooked on his belt, the grizzled commander listened for the telltale scrape of the closing door before addressing Eadric directly. "Bagley said I'd find you down here," he ventured, grim-faced with regretful tidings. "Olba Whitestar is dead, murdered by her own retainer."

Intrigued, Eadric sat forward. "Where is he now?"

"At large. And the princess is missing."

"Any demands?"

"None that I've heard of."

"How terrible. What have you done to rectify this awful affair?"

"I've dispatched my brother's team to find and detain him. I'd give it three days, at most."

A smile spread, sly as they came. "Detain?"

There was marginal confusion on Michael's part, due in full to the gleam of laughter in Eadric's eyes. He squared his shoulders. "I'll take care of it," he said, though in truth he looked torn. "Should I break the news to the queen?"

"I think you've gone well beyond your line of duty, Michael. I can handle Ellena." With a sudden frown of concern, he rummaged again through his pockets. "Is there anything else?"

"How do you want to deal with the Reach?"

Eadric shrugged. "Empty the cisterns," he said. "Destroy the summit and reap what you can from the glass. The Spellman Establishment might have use for it. Ask Norita."

"What about the women?"

"What women?"

"The women who live in the barracks. The preservites."

Eadric glanced, still frowning. "I didn't tell you to destroy the whole fort," he said. "Ben's under orders to fund the Whitestar sanctuaries indefinitely. The women can stay."

Michael's thumb slid from his belt. "He failed to mention that." 

"Care to explain why you're running his errands today?"

"He threw out his back trying to get out of bed. He was moaning on the floor like a swine with the scours when I left." 

Eadric sneered. "Pathetic."

Michael exchanged a glance with Alyce. She must have been smiling, because he reciprocated the expression. "You look better today," he said. "I'm glad."

She saluted him. "Thanks, commander."

He nodded once, as if at a compliment, and then did the same to Eadric. "I'll be in touch," he said, perhaps sensing they'd covered their bases. "Until then."

"Until then," Eadric agreed. "Give my best to Rhysa, would you."

Michael smiled politely and took his leave through the musty impassable darkness. When they were alone again, Eadric listened to a message he'd received. The shell, Alyce saw, was the same one from earlier, connected to Olba Whitestar's retainer, Wallace Varick, the man who'd killed her, the man whom Eadric had sentenced to death.

He stared darkly, fingers drumming. "Alyce."

"Yes, Eadric."

"Have the kids set out yet?"

She knew who he meant. "A short while ago."

His eyes rolled high. They always did when he was thinking of how to word something. A few seconds passed before he spoke into the emptied shell. "Excellent work, Wallace," he said. "Proceed to Farwell for payment. Contact me when you reach the city limits." He looked over at Alyce when he was done, head atilt. "You've been quiet," he noticed. "I don't like it."

"Did you just have the queen's mom killed?"

Her flat, displeased expression fueled another unusual bark of laughter. "What?" he scoffed, like he didn't see what was so wrong with it. "She was obsessed with the assignment and the issue basically resolved itself without her. Don't glare at me like that."

"Then what about the princess?"

"Una's involvement was a delightful bonus."

Noncommittally, Alyce upheld, "She's a bad egg, Eadric."

Eadric absently stirred the spilled ale with his finger. "Her position in the regime makes her a necessary irritant," he said. "She'll be a powerful asset if she doesn't overstep her bounds."

"She will. She thinks she's in love."

He smirked at her. "And what do you know about being in love?"

"Are you keeping Kyrian here as bait?"

"Obviously."

"Do you even care about the iron?"

"Not particularly, no. Convincing him that I did was a terrible waste of top-notch ale." Eadric must have seen an angry flare in her disposition, because he searched her face. "Such fierce eyes," he mused, looking back and forth between them. "What are you thinking?"

Alyce carefully refolded her letter. "Why do you tell me this stuff?"

Breezily, he replied, "Perhaps I value your advice."

"Stupid. I could easily turn against you."

"Yes, I suppose you could."

She hated him, how he always seemed to know what she'd do. So she tossed the letter into the ale and said, "Don't go to the trouble of these anymore."

It marinated, curling. Eadric slowly became inexpressive. "You knew?"

"It's been too many years. Your letters are kinder than she ever was." Her pulse was rising into her throat. "I'm going to watch you die someday," she swore. "Just you wait."

Chillingly, the notion seemed to thrill him. Eadric came in for a closer study. "How terrifying," he leered, eyes wide for effect. "I hope you'll do me the courtesy of filling out first. Hurting children isn't nearly as rewarding as I'd like it to be."

"I didn't ask to age this slow."

"That's what makes it so amusing."

"At least I'm not a corpse." Alyce instantly wished she'd kept quiet. She didn't speak again until his smile had gone to the last, until she was sure there was no turning back. "There are traces of you all over Karna," she told him. "It took a while, but now I know why."

Eadric lifted a corner of the letter he'd written. Ink ran. "You also know what I'll do if you step out of line," he said, eyes low. "Please choose your next words carefully."

A reminder. Alyce forced herself calm. "You have them all headed for Farwell," she said, quietly, of their original matter. "What if they cross paths?"

"I'm counting on it."

"Why?"

Eadric's hand came down on the worm. Its guts squelched between his fingers. "When it comes to making an ally, one doesn't simply approach the other party with visions of solidarity," he replied. "One waits, same as you just did, to see how well they respond to adversity."