The guard winced at the sound of booted feet stomping up the stairs. He considered himself a reasonably brave man, but he recognized this particular pattern of stomping, and the owner of the approaching feet had caused more than one brave man to pale before her wrath. He leapt to the outer door, unlocked it, and stepped back, bracing himself for the impending storm. Sadly, he was not disappointed.

The door flew open, slamming against the wall. Behind him, the guard heard the groans of hung-over prisoners, particularly sensitive to loud noises. Before him, filling the open doorway, she stood, glaring into the stockade. Her eyes leapt from the prison cells, to the unfortunate guard, then back to the prison cells, as if unwilling to accept what was obviously before them. Finally, her eyes came back to rest on him, narrowing slightly. He winced again.

"How?" she demanded.

He shrugged awkwardly, "We don't know, sir."

"When?"

"Sometime just after midnight, as far as we can tell," he said, praising every god that it hadn't happened on his shift.

She stood in thought for a moment, and as the storm had momentarily abated, he allowed himself a good look at her, in case he never got another chance. The guard was not a small man, but she towered over him. She wore the light chain mail armour issued to all the city guard, plain blue tabard over this, and the silver clasp that held her grey cloak in place signified her captain's rank. Her blonde hair, currently unbound by her usual dented helmet, was arrayed around her head like a mane, and her blue eyes blazed even in her silent contemplation. Her fierce beauty was not spoiled by her anger—rather it was enhanced. However, the prison guard would no more entertain romantic thoughts toward her than he would toward a mountain lion; some ideas were beyond even idle fancy.

"And no one saw it happen?" her question jerked his thoughts back from their wandering.

"No, sir. Feillis reported that one moment he was singing quietly to himself in his cell. He stopped, and it was assumed he had fallen asleep. When Feillis brought rations, he was simply...gone."

She thought a moment more, then nodded, "Very well. I want a full report from Feillis. He can give it to your sergeant. And check the cell for any signs—loose stones, carving around the window, anything unusual. Anything." She turned to leave.

"Yes, sir, but we have already—"

"Check it again, corporal!" She whirled on him, and he stumbled backward, bumping the desk.

"Yes, sir!"

She slammed the door behind her, and mercifully, her stomping footsteps faded down the stairs.

♠

"But how do you know he's not in the city?" The castellan frowned up at her from his desk.

"The same way I knew he wasn't in his cell this morning, sir. When I woke up, after sleeping very badly, I knew he was gone." Her look was challenging, and the castellan couldn't argue with the fact that the prisoner was gone. He stood up, groaning softly—winter was coming, and it wouldn't be kind to his old joints this year. He picked up the parchment that she had given him, and glanced over it again. It was a full report, including the duty guard's statement. And it ended with her request—

"Regrettably, Captain Jiquen, I cannot grant you a leave at this time," he said, looking up from the parchment at her. She stood stiffly at attention, and though her stance didn't falter, he caught the tightening of her eyes. "Oh, for all the gods' sakes, be at ease, Captain. And speak freely."

She relaxed her stance as he sat on the edge of his desk. "Castellan..." she began.

"Call me by name, Quen. I said speak freely."

She came as close to smiling as she was likely to. "Paulus, I must go. In ten years of service, when have I ever taken a leave?"

"Never, to my knowledge, and against my advice. You certainly deserve one, but winter will be deep upon us soon—no time to go traipsing through the hills, looking for one deserter. Especially when I need you here—you're worth one hundred of him. If he is gone, let him go. So much the better."

"Paulus, you don't really need me here and you know it. Any of my lieutenants are fully able to replace me, and they would have by now, if only you'd retire, and give me your job."

He laughed out loud at this, and said, "Quen, you belong in Grif's Bound, not out there with the trolls. Stay here and I promise I'll retire in the spring."

She actually smiled this time, "Horseshit. Um, sir. They'll have to pry your old stiff fingers away from this desk," she said, and her smile faded. "Paulus, you and Grif's Bound have been good to me, to both of us. But he is my brother, and it's as much my fault as his if he made a terrible guardsman."

"Brother," snorted the old man, "that's a piss-poor excuse. He's a wastrel and a layabout.” He paused, giving her the chance to defend the missing prisoner, and when she didn't, he continued, "And a drunk. You didn't have a hand in that, I'll wager."

Quen sighed. He was beginning a conversation they had had a million times, and to his surprise, she didn't take the bait this time.

"Nevertheless," she said, and seemed not to know what else to say.

They stood in uncomfortable silence for a moment, before the castellan turned back to his desk and picked up a quill. He handed her the signed document and said simply, "You have a fortnight. Do what you will."

♠

Jiquen passed through the gates of Grif's Bound with a nod to the guards on either side of the narrow entrance. They stood at attention and saluted her smartly – they might say what they would about her harsh leadership over cups of ale off-duty, but she had their respect and not a soldier among them was glad to see her go. She paused a moment before Sallach, the duty sergeant, and he cleared his throat and gave her a wink. The old sergeant had been one of her first tutors with the blade, and had watched her advance through the city guard with all the satisfaction of a proud father.

"You'll come back to us in one piece I hope, sir," he said.

"I have leave for a fortnight, Sallach. I'm hoping your crew, at least, can manage to keep the place from burning to the ground in that time."

He laughed and saluted, then offered her his hand, which she took, clasping his forearm. "Be careful out there, Quen," he said, "it smells of an early winter, and I think the trolls will be down from the mountains early this year."

"Then I'll make sure I'm back before the nights get too long."

He nodded, "Good."

Seeing that there was really nothing else to say, Jiquen hoisted her pack, adjusted the straps a bit, and marched.

♠

The bright sunshine and cloudless sky belied the repeated warnings she had had about an early winter, and the crisp fall day kept her refreshed as she walked. She kept a quick pace, her long legs eating up the distance between Grif's Bound and whatever awaited her down the road. To either side of the road lay harvested fields, empty but for cattle and sheep grazing the shorn leftovers of hay, wheat and barley. Occasionally she saw a farmhouse a ways back from the road and once a man in the distance waved to her.

Quen waved back, and sighed. The reality of leaving Grif's Bound was just beginning to sink into her consciousness; Quen was not an overly thoughtful person, not given to idle imagination or speculation. Not that she was slow-witted, just the opposite in fact. Thought and action went hand in hand with her, and when a situation called for action, it was far easier to simply act upon it than analyze it to death. This frame of mind had served her well as a captain of the Guard. So when her brother left without a word, miraculously escaping from prison no less, she followed. What else could she do?

But now she was half a day's march from the only place she ever knew as 'home' and she suddenly realized she had no idea where she was going, or indeed, what she was going to do when she got there. She stopped for a moment and looked back. The small city was long out of sight, tucked away in the foothills, but she thought she could still see smoke in the distance where she guessed Grif's Bound would be. It was terribly inviting.

"I should have just let the bastard go, as Paulus said."

She shook her head in annoyance, knowing she wouldn't, perhaps even couldn't, let Quill run away from the city without at least a word of explanation. She could feel him off ahead of her—she wasn't sure how far away he was, but she knew he was there. Just as she had always been able to feel him, and he her. To the best of her memory, they had never been more than a league apart, and though she was sure he was further away now, the feeling was no different. The feeling itself was much like that of the awareness that another person was in the room with you, not menacing or looming, just there. She had never explained it to anyone, had never really given it much thought—it was just one of those things that was.

At least he was headed away from the mountains. Grif's Bound lay in the foothills of the Houndstooth Mountains, which were really just a jagged range split off from the steeper Whitecaps to the south and east. Her city was essentially an outpost, representing the edge of what could be considered the northern edge of civilisation. It had been established centuries before as a border fort, built to protect the Torgish Empire from incursions by barbarians from the plains of the Druin-Tor, whether Druini or Barghest, or by trolls or worse from the mountains. The western road that she now followed led down into the heart of what used to be the Torgish Empire and was now called simply Torgland—a vast collection of petty baronies and fiefdoms, which had had no real united leadership since the collapse of the empire some thousands of years before.

"And damned lonely," she thought as she resumed her walk.

Presently she saw a figure on the road ahead, walking toward her. She narrowed her eyes, squinting into the now sinking sun, but couldn't discern anything other than a general outline of a person. She loosened her sword in its sheath and kept walking. In about five minutes, when the figure was only a couple hundred mitres off, she could see that the figure was a farmer, and he watched her warily as he approached. She waved to him and could see him visibly relax and hurry his pace.

As he approached, she said, "Good afternoon," and the older man smiled and laughed.

"Good day, your honour. An' relieved I am to see you. I was just coming to fetch someone from the city.” He eyed her captain's insignia meaningfully.

Quen frowned and asked, "Is there trouble ahead?"

The old farmer shrugged, "Well, trouble enough for me. Some bastard stole my wagon, mule and all. He rode off, leaving me with naught but what you see me wearing, and shouted that someone in the city would pay me for the lot. But that ain't gonna feed me o'er the winter."

She sighed and unshouldered her pack, "What did he look like, this thief?"

"Well, he were about a hand or two taller than me, and so a fair bit shorter than you. Had him a soldier's uniform, like your'n, and his hairs were dark, on his head and his face. I remember because you don't see much of that less'n someone's got some of the Druin-blood in them."

Out of her pack, she handed him a small purse. "Take what your rig was worth from that, and an emperor besides, for your trouble. How far are you from home?"

He nodded at her for her generosity and said, "Not more than an hour, back yonder."

"Well then, for tonight go home. I'll stay with you tonight, if I might. Tomorrow you can head for Grif's Bound with an early start and not travel in the dark. Someone there will trade you a new rig for the coin."

"Of course you can stay with me, lassie. M'daughter's a right good cook and she'll feed you up. You chasin' this thief, then?"

"He's not really a thief if I've paid you for the goods, now is he?"

The old farmer considered this, "I suppose not, but if he's on official town business, he ought'n be better prepared, hadn't he?"

She couldn't argue with that, but packed up and followed the farmer home.

♠

A week's travel found her moving back toward the north. She had left the road three days before, finding the Quill's stolen wagon abandoned. He had taken, presumably, as much in the way of foodstuffs as he could pack on the mule, and she had paused to restock her own supplies from what the racoons hadn't destroyed the night before. She had bought it, after all. She was headed into the hills now, and back toward where the mountains veered westward, leaving the settled farmland behind her. She couldn't understand why Quill was fleeing—obviously he felt her presence behind him as she felt his ahead. But then she had never really understood what he had done, or why.

They had been abandoned as children, the two of them, not far from where Quen was now marching. A patrol of soldiers from Grif's Bound had found them and taken them back to the city, where they were unofficially adopted by Sallach, who even then had been a duty sergeant of the Guard. Quen had largely retained the personality she displayed when she had been found as a squalling child, yelling and fighting her way into adulthood and a position in the Guard. Jiquill, on the other hand, had always been silent, moody and ponderous. Many had thought he was simple, but a summer spent with the Vitalist priest learning his letters, then devouring the priest's small library, then driving the priest nearly mad with questions, soon dissolved that notion.

Quen surmised that half of the people in Grif's Bound had taken to calling him 'Quill' simply to shorten his name, as they had with her—she was also convinced that the other half called him Quill because he was one of the few people in the town that could actually use one. Regardless of their nicknames for him, Quill was considered a strange one. His hair colour was enough to cause people to look twice—most of the Torgs were decidedly fair in skin and hair, some being so blonde as to be almost white-haired, as Quen herself was. But beyond his colouring, Quill was just strange. He laughed at odd times, seeming to appreciate a private joke that others weren't privy to; he was obviously brilliant, but seemingly lazy, avoiding physical work at any cost; and most odd, things seemed to happen around him. Ordinary enough occurrences, coincidental perhaps, such as doors opening or closing, noises from no where, locks falling open, but mostly fires—cookfires leaping into a full blaze, haylofts bursting into flame. All seemed to happen when he was nearby, not close enough to be accused of manufacturing the occurrences, but close enough to warrant observation. Quen had no doubt that many acknowledged his disappearance with a sigh of relief.

Just as Quen was climbing a small ridge, wondering when she would finally catch up with her errant brother, he was there. He sat cross-legged on a large boulder, pulling on his goatee (the latest of his strange affectations) and watching her as she made her way up the ridge. She stopped in surprise, and they stared at each other for a moment, before he hopped down and walked toward her, grinning.

She let him get within arm's length before she smashed her fist fully into his grinning mouth.

The bastard was actually laughing as he got up and wiped the blood from his lip. "I am sorry for the trouble, Quen, but I knew there was no way you'd leave Grif's Bound without being forced to."

She hit him again.

"Forgiven."

He wasn't as cocky as he got up the second time, saying, "Fine. You can beat me all day if you like, but you're here now. Aren't you even curious why I left?"

"I'm more interested in knowing how you got out of the stockade, actually."

He shrugged, "Easy enough. Favours owed, and people are used to strange things happening when I'm around. Feillis stuck to the story, I take it?"

She nodded. "Well, it's a relief to know you didn't just vanish, after all.” She made a mental note to personally flog Feillis to just this side of death when she got back. "So what are you doing out here?”

Quill regained his composure at this, "Quen, don't you realize where we are?"

She nodded again, "We're close to where Sallach found us. But he said he looked all over this area when he found us, Quill. There's nothing here. I don't know what you think you'll find, but it isn't here."

"Oh but it is, Quen. Come, let me introduce you to our uncle."

Quill turned and led her further into the hills at a surprisingly brisk pace; she had to struggle to keep up with him, which surprised her. Seems the time in the wild has toughened him up a bit, she thought, grinning herself now. Suddenly he vanished. As she approached the area where he had been, she nearly walked right past a cave opening in between the boulders on the far side of his path.

"Come on!" his voice echoed out of the darkness.

Intrigued in spite of herself, she entered the gloom, moving toward the soft firelight in the distance.

♠

The ancient, dark-skinned man could barely sit up; he was emaciated and seemed to be just a few breaths short of death, but his eyes were bright as they met hers. "I see you came out after all, despite not hearing me call," he said.

She looked around. The cave showed signs of having been inhabited for years—there was furniture, likely pilfered from abandoned farmhouses, a table and chairs and the bed that the man now lay in. A writing desk sat in the far side of the cave, well away from the opening which even now let in the cool fall air. Stacked on the desk and scattered around it, as well as filling up two large trunks were a staggering number of books, far more than Quen had seen in the entire town of Grif's Bound. Many lay carelessly strewn about the room as well. A small, merry fire burned in the fire pit in the centre of the cave, the smoke rising to the roof and out a natural chimney somewhere above in the dark. She occasionally heard the wind whistle over it. The stolen mule stood in the corner.

She stared back at him, "You called me?"

"I called both of you, but Jiquill is the only one who could hear. Your ears are obviously stopped up with oil and the sounds of squeaky armour. Well, welcome anyway, Jiquen."

"Why?"

"Majul Anesti is our uncle, Jiquen," said Quill. He seemed oddly formal in the old man's presence. "He called us back to tell us of ourselves before he dies."

"Horseshit," said Quen.

"You doubt that I am your mother's brother?"

"I have little knowledge about that, and I care even less. Whatever you want from us, I doubt it's for our well-being."

Quill looked aghast and tried to shush her, but the old man laughed. "No, no, Jiquill, she has earned the right to some bitterness. And her suspicions do her justice. You are right in one thing, Jiquen," here he broke off as he coughed and spat. He continued after a moment, "I want something of you, but I have a great deal to offer in exchange."

"I don't want anything from you."

"No?  Possibly that's true—I have no idea what to expect from you. But Jiquill wants a very great deal from me, and I have the means to give it to him. But you...aren't you even curious to know of your mother?"

Quen didn't like the old man. He was curiously dark-skinned, darker even than the Druini, and she had never seen people with such colour. But it wasn't his skin that bothered her, apart from the fact that it made it difficult to believe his claims of kinship. She was sure that he was, or had been, a merchant of some sort, and she recognized the wheedling, bargaining tone that immediately set her on edge. And Quill watched the old man with something like hunger in his face. He obviously believed that the old man was kin, or at least believed he knew something of their past. She didn't trust the hold that...Majul Anesti? what kind of name was that? had on her brother.

On the other hand...she had never given much thought to her origins before, being much more concerned with her life in the here and now, but now that the opportunity to learn something of their past was here, she had to admit she was curious.

"Very well," she said finally, and Quill looked relieved, "what is it that you want from us?  And what do you have to offer?"

"Knowledge. You are obviously the sort that can't be tempted with gold, though I could offer that too, so I will simply offer knowledge. And what I want is to be out of this gods-forsaken Torgland. No offence, Jiquen, but your people are some of the most backward, uncivilised barbarians it has ever been my displeasure to come across."

She ignored this, "Fine, knowledge. Let's start with you. Before I agree to anything I want to know who you are and why you're here."

"I'll do better than that, Jiquen. I will tell you a story, and my part is only very negligible, but it should satisfy you. This will even be free of our bargain, just a little something to establish good faith, and to give you enough knowledge so that I may not have to deal with ignorance any longer. I am sick unto death of the ignorance of you people."

Grudgingly, Quen nodded—at least he wasn't trying to soften her up with kind words.

The old man hacked and spat again, and his eyes assumed a far-away look. His tone became sing-songy as he said, "Very well. You asked my name and it is Majul Anesti. Majul is a title, though, given me when I gained the robes of fire as a Vizier in the Valasian Empire, which is farther to the south than you can imagine. My people worship the true gods, who in their struggles and wars made this very world, and who your people now call demons, if you call them at all. This was done long before the Torgs and the Dannan banded together to drive the Firbolg and the Fomors from these plains, long before your false gods stole their place. The false gods of the north are usurpers, and are powerless in my land, but our gods have power everywhere. They control the four elements, and the heavens they inhabit are pure. But still, your people know them not.

"One thing you people are good for however, is slavery. No, no, Jiquen. Put your sword away—it is true. I came here many years ago to gather more slaves, and our party was set upon by...I do not know. The animal Barghest perhaps, or trolls, perhaps even the Druini—how can one tell the strange animals of the north apart?  Not trolls perhaps, these rode horses. No matter. Because of my magic, I was captured, not killed, and after a decent rest was able to escape and make my way here.

"After a year or so living like the very animals, I saw a young girl fleeing from the mountains. She was a Torgish barbarian, and very great with child. I calmed and ensorcelled her and she was a model slave. I learned that she had been a slave of the Fomors, and that she carried a child of theirs. You, Jiquen, are the child—have you not wondered at your height and your strength?"

The old man paused for a moment, taking a long drink from the water flask by his side. He sat then in silence.

"Well?" demanded Quen. She was thrilled to know at least something about her mother, which surprised her, though she was less thrilled to hear of her other parentage. She hadn't decided whether she believed the old man or not—it was very far-fetched to think the Fomors existed, and even if they did, how could a giant breed with a human woman?  Quill, though, was enraptured, but his nods and encouragements while the old man told the story made Quen think he had heard it before.

"Well. You asked who I am and I have told you. Will you do as I ask?"

"The story is hardly finished, old man.” Quill finally nodded agreement to this, at least, obviously anxious to hear his own part of the tale.

"I think I have given you far more than enough for free. Do you agree to take me from this place?  To take me back to Valasia?"

"You're hardly in a condition to travel."

He sneered at her, "I'm so glad you noticed. Never mind about that—I have something in mind that you needn't worry yourself with," here he leaned toward her, "Do you agree?"

Quen itched to simply kill the old man and have done with it, but one look at Quill decided her. She might be happy in her ignorance and place in her world, but it was obvious that he needed to know, to know why he was so...odd. Try though she might, she had never been able to help him find a place in Grif's Bound—perhaps whatever rattled around in the old man's head would make him happy, true or not. Best to be cautious though; she still didn't trust him. She said, "You will tell Quill everything he wants to know?"

Majul Anesti laughed, "And far more besides."

"Very well, I agree to take you back to Valasia.” How long could it take?  A year?  A year was nothing.

The old man laughed and Quill leapt up—she thought for a moment he was going to hug her. "It is done," said the old man.

Suddenly, Quen felt something click in her mind. The sensation she had had of Quill's presence had...changed...somehow. She was now equally aware of the old man—and his presence was much more compelling.

"You asked how I was to travel. I have power, of course, power to call upon the gods you have chosen to spit upon. But even this has limits, and my health is, as you noted, poor. You and your brother must do one small thing for me before we depart."

"Must?" she asked.

"Actually, yes. Must. It falls within the terms of our contract. If I cannot travel, you cannot fulfill your promise. Or, if you prefer, I believe your people call it geas."