19. Trouble Comes In Threes

To The Relevant Party

The words spilled out in florid curls of amethyst ink. The writing hand paused, quill poised over the page. The elegant fingers of the other hand tapped thoughtfully, lacquered fingernails stamping little crescents into thick lilac parchment. The stationery matched the author’s lavender skin - one of their multifarious indulgences. A little treat, for the sake of style.

After a moment’s thought, they resumed their calligraphy.

I don’t know who you are, and you don’t know who I am.

But I’ve seen you in my dreams.

The author flicked their hand, a jewelled array of bangles chiming like bells. The last line shimmered, then evaporated from the parchment. It definitely gave the wrong impression. Caela might take it as some romantic metaphor, rather than a literal statement of fact.

They tried again.

The city of Aegiswood is in trouble.

Trouble? Hm. Perhaps ‘peril’ would be better. It was the kind of language an amateur bard might use, admittedly, but a hint of urgency couldn’t hurt. The quill hovered, then made another adjustment.

… in peril.

They paused, considering.

I don’t blame you for being suspicious. If you help me, I believe you will find peace through answers to your unresolved questions.

The cards had said Caela was charitable and kind; eager to help anyone in need. For her more sceptical allies, though, something more substantial would be needed. They twirled the quill slowly, pondering the coup de grâce, then smiled.

I know you live in the cat’s half-light now. I know about your wilted flowers - your roses and hellebores.

You faced the rot, but didn’t dig it out. Its source is in Aegiswood, where it has taken root within the silver tree.

The author placed a steadying hand on their bureau. The letters swirled on the page, the after-effects of the vision making their head light. The dream had been vague, but hopefully Caela would understand the symbolism.

I’ll be waiting at Ciria’s Palm, under summer’s last full moon. I look forward to finally meeting you.

The fingers drummed out another tattoo on the desk. How to sign the letter? A real name would be too dangerous, and a codename would only breed suspicion. What would Caela trust?

Ah- perfect.

From A Friend.

The purple hands waved the parchment to let the ink dry, then snapped it sharply. The letter collapsed into a neatly-folded rectangle, which they held to the flame of a drooping candle. In an instant, the letter caught alight and flashed into the aether, leaving not a speck of ash.

Half a world away, the letter quite literally fell into the hands of its intended recipient. It would be read, considered, and then placed into her satchel. There it would sit, gaining creases, for about a month - until the right moment called it back into the light.

—

“Psst! Wake up!”

A splash of cold landed on Caela’s forehead, slicing through her sun-warmed drowsiness. She frowned, raising a hand to shield herself from more raindrops. As she cracked open her eyelids, blinking sleep out of her eyes, she found a grey cloud hanging over her.

It was, quite specifically, hanging over her, about three feet off the ground and no bigger than a sheep. On the grass beside her, Mene was still basking in full sunshine. As Caela’s sleep-fogged brain creaked to life, a familiar face loomed out of the cloud.

“Good! You’re awake. I thought you might be dead.”

Unapologetic mischief gleamed in Freija’s green eyes.

Caela hadn’t seen her in weeks. Her friend’s mercurial temperament hadn’t been dampened by the destruction of San Aria, nor the relocation of its residents to a temporary camp outside its walls. In fact, the druid seemed to have made it a personal challenge to discover ‘New San Aria’ all over again. Her whirlwind visits to the manor had become increasingly few and far between, each one filled with stories about some new group of strangers she’d been staying with or hobby she wanted to take up.

She wasn’t the only one of their group who’d practically vanished over the last month.

Valerios, ever hungry for conquest, had thrown himself into the expeditions into the city’s ruins. Johannes had locked himself away with his rituals, muttering about ‘significant advancements that must be made’. Even Lux had been spending more and more time alone, wandering the coastline in his grief.

Caela hadn’t wanted to interfere. Selfishly, though, she sometimes felt like everyone had moved out of Menelaus’ old mansion without telling her.

So, even with her perfect afternoon nap ruined, Caela couldn’t help but smile up at Freija, already forgiving her rude awakening. It was worth it for a change in the weather.

“How have you been, Freija?” she said warmly, wiping away raindrops with her sleeve. “What’ve you been up to?”

Freija threw herself down on the grassy hillside beside her. “Oh, nothing much,” she replied airily, resting her chin on her palm. “I’ve been helping at the infirmary today. Giving them a bit of Freija Magic.”

She wiggled her fingers to illustrate. A few faint pink petals drifted between her hands.

Caela was impressed. “That’s great!” she said. “Your rituals must do a month’s healing in minutes.”

Freija shrugged modestly. “There’s a limit to how much of Blessed Nature’s gifts I can use before I get tired. I only did six people today. At this rate, I’ll have healed everyone who needs it in…”

She counted on her fingers.

“...ten years?”

Caela couldn’t tell whether she was joking or not. Elves had long lifespans, but she’d be surprised if Freija could do the same thing for a week, let alone a decade.

“Still,” Freija continued, squinting at the view, “I do enjoy healing. I like holding people’s lives in my hands and deciding whether they live or die.”

Now Caela really couldn’t tell if she was joking. The enigmatic twinkle in Freija’s eyes was the same as ever. She didn’t seem to notice Caela’s reaction, at any rate.

“Anyway,” Freija announced, turning her attention to Caela once again. “I thought I’d just drop by and see how you were doing. Especially since, well, it is a special day. Nothing big, though.” She left a pregnant pause, failing to look nonchalant.

Caela’s mind raced as she struggled to connect the dots.

“It’s… your birthday?” she ventured.

Freija swung up onto her knees, clapping delightedly.

“Yes! You’re so smart, Caela!” she cried. “I didn’t want to make a fuss, but being a round number and all…”

“Oh, really?” Caela prompted, curious.

Freija paused for effect.

“It’s the big two-four-oh,” she stage-whispered.

Caela was stunned. She’d always assumed that they were close in age, considering Freija’s glamorous outfits and cerulean hair. She had the energy of an elf barely a century old, despite being twice that in age. What was with the hair anyway? Was that an island elf thing? Caela made a mental note to find out later.

“Stop,” Freija gushed, watching Caela process the information. “I wish I’d never said anything. You’ll treat me like an old lady now. I’m not ready to be motherly, Caela!”

She swooned dramatically, flinging out her arms. One flailing hand clipped Caela’s open satchel, spilling its contents out onto the grass. Freija was immediately distracted from her plight by the sight of lilac parchment.

“You got me a birthday card?” she asked, looking playfully down her nose at Caela. “You absolute sneak, you thought of everything!”

“No-” Caela protested, reaching out, but Freija snatched it up first.

“Oh, it’s already open.” She shrugged and read the contents, lips moving silently. Her expression slowly shifted. Excitement faded to confusion.

At that moment, the sun went in, taking some of the vibrancy from their garden setting.

“What is this?” she asked, looking back at Caela with a frown.

“I’m not sure,” Caela replied slowly. “I think someone wants my help.”

“Well, obviously.” Freija rolled her eyes. “Look at the flowers they mentioned. Seem familiar?”

They did. Caela recalled her fallen companions with a pang. Sometimes, sitting in the garden among their namesakes, she could almost pretend she still felt their presence.

“We never found out where Vozloc got those boxes from,” she whispered.

“Or who that little gremlin thought we were working for,” Freija finished.

She pinned Caela with an unblinking stare. Her next words had no humour in them.

“What are you going to do about it?”

Caela grimaced. “I don’t know! If someone’s in need, I can’t ignore it. Especially if the peril they mentioned is anything like what happened to us.”

Freija raised an eyebrow. “You seem to be happily ignoring it so far. When did this arrive?”

“Four weeks ago,” Caela admitted lamely.

“Caela!”

The ranger cringed, holding her shoulders. “I’m sorry!”

“Well, with respect, honey,” said Freija, re-folding the letter, “If we are going to do something, it’s not going to involve sitting on our shapely buttocks worrying about it.”

“‘We’?” Caela’s heart leapt. “You’d come with me?”

Freija flashed her a smile that was as bright as the sunshine re-emerging from behind the clouds. “Of course, honey. I’m still looking for a way to fix my island’s tree, and if you remember, my best option for answers had his head juiced like an orange.”

Caela felt the hunger for adventure in her belly for the first time since their flight from San Aria. At once, her mind began putting a plan together.

“We won’t need to prepare much,” she said excitedly. “Just the basics - tents, rations, maybe a cart. Then we’ll show the others the letter, and head off immediately!”

“The others.” Freija pursed her lips. “These would be…”

“Lux, Valerios and Johannes, of course,” Caela replied, slightly confused.

Freija appeared, unusually for her, to choose her next words carefully.

“Don’t you think it would be better… without them?” She looked seriously at Caela. “Valerios could definitely stand in the way of some blows, but after seeing Mr Johannes’... research interests, I’m not sure I trust him.”

Caela remembered the look on Freija’s face when Johannes had used a piece of her sacred tree in his failed resurrection ritual.

“And Lux,” Freija continued delicately, “I don’t think is ready for the big time. Maybe he should stay here.”

Caela winced. Freija had hit upon the core of her doubts. Practically every danger she’d faced so far had been beside her golden boy, for better or worse. He’d saved her life. But wasn’t that a reason to leave him? Surely he didn’t deserve being dragged into more danger?

She knew she was making excuses. She couldn’t leave him behind without an explanation, and if Lux heard it, he’d insist on coming too. He did need rest, and relaxation. But most of all, Caela suspected Lux needed to be around people who cared about him.

“Think on it, anyway,” Freija said, brushing leaves from her skirt as she stood. Her mind was quickly occupied by more pressing matters.

“But one place Lux is invited to is my birthday party! Along with any other guests you can think of. We ought to have one, now that the secret of my old age is out. I’ll get the place looking cute, if you go and gather the others.”

Caela nodded, grateful to be on firmer ground. “Sure! I’ll bring them over this afternoon.”

Freija clapped excitedly as Caela poked Mene awake. The wolf huffed sleepily, a translucent membrane sliding over the surface of his amber eyes as his eyelids flicked open. Caela frowned slightly. She’d seen second eyelids on birds, but never wolves.

“Where is our little angel, anyway?” Freija asked as she held out Caela’s bag, impatient to get moving. Caela shrugged.

“Probably getting into trouble.”

—

“Help! Help!”

The cry rose amidst the sprawling encampment of New San Aria, where it was almost swallowed by the drum roll of billowing sailcloth and the sounds of the city. A month on from the tragedy, the citizens of San Aria had found a semblance of normalcy in their new home. That meant trade, industry and revelry. As Lux walked through the streets of white canvas tents, it was as if he could see the old city bleeding through a thin layer of white paint.

“Someone help me!”

The voice rang out  again, and Lux raised his head sharply, fleecy golden hair blowing in the wind. With his bronze skin, unkempt stubble and eyepatch, most passers by would assume that he was one of the countless dock workers injured in the evacuation. Despite his paranoia, no-one had yet guessed his true involvement in the calamity.

The wind picked up, unspooling long white clouds across the blue sky. In an alley between two flapping tarpaulins, Lux spotted a prone figure. He ducked into the passageway, kneeling next to the man, who groaned from somewhere beneath his threadbare cloak.

“You alright, sir?” Lux asked gently.

The man reached feebly for an upturned wooden bowl, before collapsing onto his face with a wheeze. Lux flipped over the bowl, finding only a couple of pennies remaining. He let out a disgusted sound and tucked his hand under the vagrant's shoulder.

“Who robs a beggar?” he asked nobody in particular. “That's lower than a drunk dwarf’s eyes.”

Lux hooked the man’s arm around his neck, lifting his surprising bulk out of the dirt.

Suddenly, he felt a dull impact in his lower abdomen. He doubled over in pain, stomach turning somersaults. As he straightened, trying to source the blow, he felt a cold pinprick in the side of his neck. He froze, swivelling his one uncovered eye to see that the arm over his shoulder was now holding a stiletto to his throat.

The vagrant chuckled, suddenly full of rakish vigour.

“Don't worry about the beggar,” he said. “I only borrowed his bowl.”

The blade slipped further up Lux’s chin, threatening to undo weeks of hard-fought beard growth.

“It’s yourself you should worry about, fraté.”

Lux cursed himself for falling for such a dumb trick. He strained his neck away from the dagger's gleaming edge, but knew better than to do anything else. His captor was definitely quick enough to cut his throat, should he scream for help - let alone draw his sword.

“Where's Shadow?” the man growled in his ear. His voice had the San Arian accent, and the smell of whiskey hung on his breath.

“What?” Lux could hardly squeeze the word out.

“The thief!” his captor hissed, twisting Lux's arm behind his back. “Hellebore! Where are they?”

Lux felt sick, and not just from the sucker-punch. His friend had been hunted by assassins, and had paid a bloody price to clear their debt. Clearly, though, new management meant new rules.

“Joke's on you,” he wheezed. “The person you're lookin’ for is already dead.”

There was a sharp intake of air beside his ear.

“Bastardo!” the man spat. “You'll pay for that.”

He released Lux’s arm, only to wrap a rough-gloved hand around his throat.

Lux struggled, feeling the edge of the knife press into his skin. Just as his vision began to darken, he saw a silhouette move over the bright entrance to the alley.

“Hold it!” an officious voice cried out.

It was a member of the city guard, yellow tabard flapping over a battered steel breastplate. The brick-faced guard narrowed his eyes, advancing towards captor and captive. Despite his fierce stride, Lux noticed he was unarmed. It was hard to say why the detail stood out - perhaps it was the time Lux had spent alongside the walking armoury that was Valerios.

“Don't come any closer!” his captor barked, making sure the blade was visible. The cloak's hood fell away, revealing a ruggedly handsome face. A scurrilous history was written upon it in dozens of old scars, including a curved slash across his left cheekbone. A scuffed leather patch covered his right eye socket. Lux suspected that, unlike himself, his captor was actually missing the eye.

“Enough of that, son,” the guard responded sternly. “I've got a whole squad behind me who'll fill you full of bolts if you harm this citizen.”

The assassin just laughed, shaking his head.

“I don't think so. That disguise is very good, but you were sloppy with the details. From your accent, I can tell you're not San Arian.”

He placed his chin on Lux’s shoulder, gesturing towards the guardsman with his knife.

“What do you think, raga? Look carefully, now.”

Lux focused his spinning mind and looked through Hellebore's eyepatch, seeing the alley in flat greys. The shape of the guard flickered.

The assassin felt Lux’s involuntary gasp, and let out a self-satisfied hum.

“Ahh, so you aren’t as you appear,” he murmured. “Which makes me wonder - who are you, and why do you care to interfere?"

The new arrival’s stance shifted, though his face remained oddly blank. “Perceptive, aren’t you?” he asked, in a voice very different to the gruff words of moments before. The yellow tabard and steel armour began to melt into hazy white and grey, falling like clouds of incense smoke to reveal someone standing within.

It was a young man with angular, androgynous features and crimson skin. He was richly dressed in the attire of a young noble, with an embroidered waistcoat and silk shirt covering his thin chest. The figure was holding a thin black book in one hand, while the other, heavily beringed, ran through his coiffed hair. A pair of red horns curled back from his forehead, following the contours of his raven locks. Around his legs, a plumed tail swished like that of a playful cat.

He pressed his delicate lips together, seeming only vaguely put out at having his illusion exposed. His eyes - plain white orbs - assessed the other two men. Finally, he sighed.

“Who I am,” he said languidly, “is irrelevant, as far as you're concerned. Why I care is a much more interesting question, but let's leave it at this: I can't let you kill this fellow.”

He raised his frilly-cuffed hand and pointed at the assassin, squeezing one eye shut as if aiming an invisible hand crossbow.

“Let him go, cyclops.”

The assassin regarded his unarmed challenger with amusement.

“Nice signet ring,” he observed lightly. “But you're too far from your mansion to be giving orders, my little lord.”

The tiefling inclined his head in acknowledgment, keeping his index finger trained on the pair.

“It's true: when I point like this, people tend to move.”

The silver signet ring began to tarnish, turning the colour of glowing coals.

The assassin pressed the dagger closer. Lux felt the cold bite of its sharp edge.

“Stop!”

Lux could've cried; he knew that desperate voice all too well. The assassin half-turned, pressing himself and Lux against the wall.

Half-hidden in the shadow of the flapping tents, Caela stood, an arrow nocked and drawn. Lux could read the nervous shift of her hands on her bowstring, see the way her brow was creased with uncertainty, but from the alarmed curse his captor let out, he guessed her cracked-stone facade and silent arrival were intimidating enough to hide her own fear.

She addressed the horned noble first.

“Don't even think about casting any spells with Lux in the way,” she said sternly.

Mene slipped through a flap in the canvas wall beside him, holding a sabaton in his mouth.

The noble watched as Mene sat down and set to chewing on the steel boot with a horrible sound of rending metal. “Fair enough,” he said mildly, lowering his hand and putting it into his waistcoat pocket. “I leave the rescue efforts in your capable hands.”

He glanced back at the wolf.

“And paws.”

Caela turned her attention to the one-eyed man, who was trying desperately to keep Lux between himself and everyone else.

“I thought we agreed for you assassins to leave us alone,” she said, distressed.

The man peered at her, confusion wrinkling his forehead. “I don't know about that, signorina, but your friend was being a little cocky.”

He used the knife to tap Lux's eyepatch. “He's got something of mine, which must mean he took it from someone I know.” A sneer crept into his voice. “He said he killed them.”

“I did not!” Lux protested weakly.

Caela stared at the man, gears visibly turning in her head. When she spoke, it was a statement rather than a question.

“You're Shade.”

Lux felt the man tense at the name and knew she was right. He took a cautious breath, knowing that his next words might save or damn him.

“I didn't take this from Hellebore,” he gasped, touching the patch. “They gave it to me, just before they died fighting side by side with us. They were our friend.”

Abruptly, the man released his grip on Lux and spun him around. His eye was searching, and more unsure than it’d been before. There was an incredulous grin on his face.

“Shadow, having friends?” he asked. “Fighting alongside someone? Dying for them? You'll need to come up with something better, fraté.”

“It's true, Shade!” Caela insisted, lowering her bow. “They helped us more than you can imagine, and we helped clear the debt they had with the assassins' leader.”

She scrutinised his unconvinced expression. “How else would I know your name? Mr Gwill said their debt was left by someone called Shade. That is you, isn’t it?”

As Caela and Shade stared each other down, the young noble scanned their faces perplexedly.

“Sorry, am I missing something?” he asked. “This conversation has taken quite a poorly-lit turn.”

Caela kept her eyes on Shade. After a moment’s internal struggle, she appeared to reach a decision.

“I think we all have some explaining to do,” she said restlessly, “but I’m late for my friend’s birthday party, so you’ll all have to come with me.”

Mene got up and moved to her side, dropping the mangled ball of metal at her feet.

No-one had any objections.

20. Party Guests >>