The Hanging Tree

The day was going to be unpleasant, but not until later, maybe much later. The pre-dawn air had the signs of the end of summer, but summer wasn't done yet.

Anyone with any sense would be somewhere else when that happened.

Fortunately, Rowan wasn't looking for someone with any sense.

The Count had a habit of sending her on "important scouting missions" when he wanted some peace and quiet. If she hadn't had one of those lined up, and they really were important, she'd've been out there with Reynart.

Instead of in a tree hoping a Wizard rode by beneath her.

She knew he would. He always did. But today she'd been given the go-ahead to try to capture him.

She didn't know his name, but his beast-men had almost killed Count Vadis, her foster father. She took that personally. It had taken a lot of "scouting missions" to learn which of them it was, but she was about to have a shot at him.

She heard sounds from the forest path, heard them coming, saw the noisy way they travelled, the horses that weren't well-trained enough to ride quietly and the smell of the wizard.

Wizards. Definitely two of them.

That was new.

And bad, if she meant to catch one and take him back as a trophy to the Count.

She looks down as they emerge into the clearing across the way from her disguised perch.

Three.

Slowly, quietly, an exhalation bleeds out the annoyance at the unexpected turn.

The lithe woman in the trees narrows her eyes, focusing on each of the Wizards below in turn. Which one was her quarry? She draws in all of her senses, listening to their breathing to find the cadence of the one she sought. It would have to be the one in the middle, wouldn't it?

What of these others, though? This was her quarry's habitual path, but had she encountered these others before? She searches her memory for their scents, their sounds, their mannerism.

She stills herself to focus her thoughts as she watches their horses plod along the path toward her, cataloguing the players and variables to run through the various scenarios.

She was given sanction to capture the one, but were there any restrictions on what could be done to the others?

Frontal assaults were for her brethren. This was not her way. Besides, she was alone.

The trap she had set might be enough for one, but how to incapacitate the others?

Scenario after scenario plays through, working through each variable, as her dark eyes track the trio closer and closer.

The two look -- different. Strange clothes, odd hair cuts, and a kind of ostentatious poverty that seemed out of place here in the marches, where enough people live with real poverty to know the difference. There are rumors of an order of knights, sometime in the distant past, or in a distant land, who have sworn an oath of poverty and they ride two-to-a-horse.

These aren't knights. And unless they are the world's only humble magicians, they aren't wizards, either. They look more like clerks. Rowen about trusts them to keep the account books, as long as someone keeps an eye on them. They look like they could be scared away pretty easily, but what's about to happen would easier if there were more on her side.

Maybe this is about money.

If it's about money, how are these two others outfitted? How are their horses outfitted, or is it just them? From afar, Rowen checks for bags, weapons, anything that may be of value and not just in the monetary sense.

The wizard isn't ignored either, getting a new once over for any irregularities over what was she previously observed.

Something is different about today. Why?

They'll be directly beneath her in a moment, and gone shortly thereafter, if nothing changes their plans.

The two clerks have nothing of value obviously about their persons or their horses. The horses smell familiar, and Rowen remembers the wizard riding it last week. They are unarmed, and don't seem to be very good riders.

As near as Rowen can tell from the discussion, the wizard wants them to see something, and he expects them, or more importantly their master, to pay him for it.

Rowen cants her head, ever so slightly, picking up on the discussion below. So he has something of value in the woods, does he?

She makes a quick calculation of their speed, noting the bean counters' limits on their mounts, and sets about to quietly stalk them through the woods. If she can get down off the tree without giving herself away, she will. Otherwise, she'll let them pass and then follow.

Rowen is discreetly down the tree before they pass it. She follows as they continue on. It's clear that these are city people, although the Wizard is more comfortable in the woods than the clerk.

After a half hour with only the occasional need to stay out of sight, the group arrives at a clearing, cut by a brook, but not a deep one. On the far side is a tower. It looks like a vastly oversized mushroom.

It appears to be their destination.

Looks like a mushroom, but is it? Rowen shifts downwind as she inspects the tower to evaluate its construction, possible defences, and whether or not it appears to be occupied.

It's made of stone, four stories tall and 30 feet in diameter, with windows and a ridiculous mushroom cap on top. It's painted bright red, in the way of mushrooms that want to advertise how toxic they are.

Extending her senses outward, she catalogues all the details of this place, marks its location mentally.

Drawing as close to the Wizard's group as she can without giving away her position, she listens in on their pitch to the money men.

Before she hears anything of use, they go inside the tower, leaving their horses hitched to a railing. The horses seem unconcerned.

The brook is definitely leapable. Also fordable and wade-able.

Pressing her lips together, her expression tightens as much as her vision. Why don't they ever cooperate? She shrugs it off. They never do, but one can be wishful in their thinking.

Drawing on what she knows about the Wizards and their traps and defences, she goes about checking the borders of this tower, mindful of the horses, looking for a suitable place to sneak closer to find out what makes this tower or whatever it is the Wizard has found to be so valuable.

The tower is in the middle of a clearing, but there are a few shorter trees that can give a bit of cover. Wizards don't normally come into the woods to form communities, but this one at least has other people around his tower. A person anyway. There's a young person, scrawny and a full head shy of full grown, carrying a bucket of something to the one-and-only outbuilding.

It's unclear if he's the wizard's son, apprentice, servant, or all of the above.

He hasn't seen Rowen yet.

Rowen lays in wait for him, maneuvering to catch him as he exits the outbuilding. From the wraps around her arms, she fashions ready-to-use bindings.

When the opportunity presents itself, she goes for silence first, then sight, then hands, searching him for weapons as she pulls him into the brush as quickly and quietly as possible.

Rowen has the boy gagged, bound, and dragged back to her makeshift lair in moments. He is not fully grown, and doesn't seem to be trained as a warrior. He's not struggling.

"Curious that there's so much attention here," she patters, as she cuts a piece of jerky off for herself with a dagger. She cuts a second piece and cocks a brow at the boy. An offer.

He nods towards her. His eyes are wide open and the gag precludes him eating, or talking. Or yelling for help for that matter. He seems calm enough that if that's his plan, he could do it, if Rowen untagged him.

She slips a little closer to him, with a hint of friendliness, but not entirely absent of menace. The dagger stays out, clamped between her teeth as she loosens his gag.

True to the offer, he's given the jerky, and subsequent pieces, though she keeps the dagger in hand, ready to catch him if he goes to yell or starts incanting anything. The aim is to deter him, not to kill him outright, if possible.

"Tell me about this tower. Why is it so busy all of a sudden?"

"The master is a wizard, so the church does not approve of his ways any more than those of... anyone but the church." He might've been about to say "the Weir", but he didn't. He's at least that clever. "He has been trying to make common cause with them for some time. They've come to inspect his offering to the Land-King, to make sure it is not cursed."

Rowen tilts her head and looks at him out of the corner of her eye, cutting him another piece of jerky. "Is it? Cursed?" she asks, flashing a toothy grin laden with mischief, a feint on her interest on the answer.

This must be the bizarre politics of the world beyond the frontier. The peasants beyond the protection of the nine counties are subject to the whims of a seemingly never-ending series of local leaders with aggrandized titles that probably mean "Lord of All that is in this Valley".

If there were more Weir, there would be fewer petty local kings.

She ponders over the Lord Over This Particular Distinguishing Geographic Feature and rolls around what she knows of their kind. She supposes that the Wizard's attempt to gain allies isn't unusual, but does this lord have any particular use for a Wizard?

"What is he offering?"

"A big pile of gold. Not cursed. I don't know how you'd even curse gold, it's too basic. Anyway, people curse themselves enough over it, don't they? The church is involved so that the lord can say he didn't make a deal with the evil ones.

He looks at her. "He didn't, did he?" The apprentice seems to think that Rowen would know if his master had made a deal with infernal creatures.

She lets his first question roll off rhetorically, canting her head slightly, easily construed as agreement.

"Power comes at a cost," Rowen muses. "What do you think?"

He raises an eyebrow. "I think that sounds like the kind of thing the priests say when they don't know the answer but want to sound wise."

She flashes a brilliantly mischievous grin. "Well, then you're well on your way to being a priest." A beat. "You don't really want to be a priest, do you? Sounds horribly boring."

He doesn't quite match her grin, but he seems to have decided that he's not going to be immediately slain, and relaxes slightly. "I have no desire to offend the lords spiritual, temporal, or thaumatological. Nor the Lords of the forest, either. I am 'prenticed here to adjust my temperament."

Rowen mutters to herself, "Not all that different for me." Louder for her guest, "What temperament of yours could possibly require adjusting?"

He smiles, slightly. "The one where I don't like to work, m'Lady. It seems that that aligns well with magic, if I am ever allowed to do it."

"That's a sizeable 'if,'" she comments. "Learning magic sounds like work."

He shrugs, as best can while tied. "It's inside work and the heavy lifting is with your brain."

There's a disturbance in the nearby henhouse. Probably just chickens being chickens.

"What's that all about?" she asks, flicking a nod toward the henhouse. She goes over to the boy and unties him, gives him the rest of the jerky. "Get back to work. Keep your mouth shut."

The boy rubs his wrists.

A pause. "And then you should really go home."

His eyes go wide." Are you going to k-- Yes, ma'am, go away." He ducks into the henhouse and then out the back with a bucket, as if heading to the stream for water. Or to leave and get as far from her as possible.

She casts a mild grin at the boy's retreating figure, committing his details to memory, an unconscious action that's as automatic as breathing. Appearance, smell, voice, name... well, maybe not that last one.

The front door of the tower opens and the clerks walk out. The wizard is talking to them in the doorway. None of them have noticed Rowen, or the rapidly departing apprentice.

Rowen returns her attention to the task at hand. She observes the conversation at the door for a moment gauging the wizard and bankers' demeanor to get a sense of how their meeting went. Should the wizard step out of the door, she has something in mind, but in the meantime, she inspects the tower for another way to pry her way in.

They seem quite happy with each other. Without getting close enough to overhear, signs are positive.

The tower is short, and looks climbable. The door and lower windows will be secure and would draw attention if she forced it. The top would be less protected, probably, and affords a pair of windows that stick out like gables of the mushroom cap.

Or perhaps there's some way to burrow under it.

The clerics are unhitching their horses and preparing to leave. The wizard waits in the doorway, looking around his forest domain.

Rowen takes advantage of the noise and disturbance of their departure to scale the tower. Testing the windows, she looks for quiet ingress into the tower, but is willing to abandon it if subtlety is not an option. She'd rather not go the more direct route, but having abandoned her old plan a long while back, it's time to improvise.

Rowen slips around the back, by the chicken coop and the creek, and finds a ladder conveniently leaning against the tower. Not that she needs one. It's easy enough to get to the bottom of the roof, just under the overhanging mushroom cap at the top of the ladder and the top of the tower.

It's an easy free-climb out and over the lip onto whatever is up there, but there's no telling if it's of any use to go there, and she might not have an easy way back.

There are air vents amid the soffits under the roof cap, closed but not impenetrable.

Somewhere below, around the front of the tower, the door closes. Probably best not to linger at the top of the tower, in plain sight.

The air vents it is, then. She quietly inspects one for traps and, barring the discovery of any, opens it up, and makes her way inside. She takes a moment to tuck in anything loose to avoid snags. Mindful to be as silent as possible, she crawls deeper into the tower, looking for either an out of the way room or otherwise attractive place to exit the vent and into people space. All senses active and on alert.

The vent leads to what looks like an attic store-room that fills half the tower. The peaked mushroom cap roof gives the room here an odd shape and makes it hard to use the space well. There's a low cot along one wall, perhaps for the apprentice.

There are noises from the hall. Perhaps footsteps, but also perhaps just creaking sounds.

Rowen stills herself, remaining silent long enough to determine one from the other. With a sense of the ambient noise of the tower, she pads softly to the door and listens for the Wizard... and perhaps any other additional residents.

Before opening the door, she checks the state of the hinges, especially for their likelihood to create noise. When the coast sounds clear, she'll crack it just a bit to visually check the hall or room in all directions before she enters.

The hall is empty, but there is a door across the way with light coming from beneath it. The light shifts like someone is moving in it.

Rowen also hears motion down below, but it doesn't seem like anyone is immediately climbing the stairs.

She quietly slips into the hall and sneaks up to the door to listen and sniff to get a sense of what might be on the other side of the door. More importantly, she looks for a way to prevent the door from opening, so as to trap whatever was inside on that side of the door.

The door opens into the room, but it might be possible to hook a chair around the handle and at least slow whoever is in there.

Rowen smells a Weir. But not one she knows. That's notable, but not impossible. There are some more remote holdings that don't get visited very often.

He probably smells her already, but he hasn't made any noise.

Well, we can't have him interrupt. The locking system on the door is probably fairly simple or non-existent, so there's likely nothing to jam the door that way. Inward opening doors are so much more of a challenge.

She finds some rope, or barring that a bedsheet, and knots the ends to the door handle and a nearby sconce. We'll deal with him later.

Once she's satisfied with how secure this looks, she starts creeping downstairs.

It's tied off, with a dusty sheet that was over a dusty trunk in her part of the attic. Rowen thinks it will only keep one of her kinsmen in the room if they don't want to destroy anything getting out. She can think of three ways it wouldn't hold her.

The stairs are narrow and turn sharply. They end at a door or what is probably the second level. "Mushroom shaped" is a bad plan for a dwelling for someone who isn't a gnome. Too many curved walls and weird windowsills.

If this was a normal castle, like the kind reasonable people live in, the ground floor would be working spaces, the middle would be living quarters, and the top would be storage. It's unclear if Wizards are like normal people.

The door is ajar and this floor is a single room. Half of it is lined with books, and the other half has a solitary wooden cot. The wizard does not sleep in luxury, if indeed he sleeps.

Marginally normal, Rowen thinks to herself. Then again, with the exception of the cot, she might find herself rather at home with a library like this. While keeping an ear out for activity below and above, she drifts over to the Wizard's reading table and reads a few paragraphs to get a sense of what he's working on. Figures he'd leave the books open. The entire room looks like unfinished project after unfinished project.

The book on the table is about bonding moonlight to quicksilver and coating the edge of a weapon with it, with the intention of killing supernatural beings.

Making her way back around to the stairs, she scans the titles on the shelf, cataloguing what else may be of interest in this room.

She hasn't seen many of the titles on the wall, but they seem to be written in Reman, which is something of a lingua franca amongst the imperial successor states. One or two look to be in Thari, but they are in bad shape, unlike most of the Wizard's books.

They're probably stolen.

She pulls the Thari ones off the shelf and scans for titles and maybe a quick look at the first page, before dropping them into her pack.

They're old, and they've got basic information about Amber and the Golden Circle in them. Think of a combination travel guide and diplomatic cheat-sheet on the way things were before Patternfall. Not that she knows much about patternfall (as such).

That would make for some interesting reading later. Might be the first time she's seen anything like it in writing. Definitely going in the bag.

The stairs continue down after the landing, and it's definitely where the Wizard is.

Rowen tucks her hair up and secures anything loose, so that it doesn't dangle. She prepares some bindings for easy access and creeps down the stairs headfirst to peek into the room below, triangulating for the location of the Wizard.

He's at a workbench by the window, and he seems agitated. The window is open. "Boy! Get in here!", he shouts. He turns and heads for the door.

He hasn't spotted Rowen. Yet.

Rowen slips back out of sight, waiting for him to step outside and start yelling again to make her move.

He steps outside, and starts yelling.

As quickly as she can without betraying too much noise, she'll slide down the stairs when he no longer has line of sight of it and come from behind, with the express purpose of practicing the fine art of folding laundry with the person still in it. Priorities are to subdue, bind his hands, then blindfold and gag him.

While the old man has some sharp elbows, Rowen makes quick work of him. She has to knock him out to do so, however. Shortly she is sitting atop a bound, gagged, and unconscious wizard.

With her primary objective accomplished, she throws him over a shoulder and seeks out a horse or other beast of burden to avoid having to be one herself. She pauses as she passes the door, considering the Weir she left upstairs, but judges they can likely take care of themselves, if they're still there at all. Focus. Back on the task: she takes her prize home.

s There's still the one horse here, the mare that the wizard was riding earlier. Probably the one the young servant should've been grooming. She doesn't seem pleased with Rowen's smell.

Rowen arrives back at Valistaad with her prisoner, whom she can turn over to the Count's guards for the nonce, to some exciting news. The warband that went out with the prince of Amber has returned, and her brother with it. A different prince, and his young daughter, have brought them home from Gateway with gifts from the rightful rulers of Gateway and, rumor has it, eggs from strange birds that are used as mounts in Gateway.

Along with the prisoner, she gives detailed instructions on how to return to the Wizard's tower and a suggestion that a raiding party may want to clean it out. If they were interested in doing so, she has the key. As far as the horse is concerned, Rowen turns her over to the guards as well. If the mare's lucky, she'll be given to the peasants. If not, she might be part of dinner.

The news of her brother's return excites her to no end, though she makes an effort to hide it. She's probably not entirely successful in the way she fidgets and biases toward the door while getting the rest of her business done. As soon as it's done, she's gone, making a note to herself to inquire about the eggs later.

Once Rowen has her prisoner squared away, she is free to do as she wishes. Reynart is helping to unload the ship, by which the court means telling the servants what to do. The Count is closeted with the Amberite.

What does Rowen do?

Conveniently, with the new visitors inaccessible, Rowen grabs a few things from the castle and makes her way down to the docks, with her ever-present satchel. It's not hard to sniff out where her brother commands, and she "sneaks" up on him as familiarly as they have played in the past, giving him a warm embrace.

He knows she's there, but he lets her "surprise" him anyway.

"I'm so glad you're back," Rowan says into his shoulder, as they release each other. "A year is far better than the decades of the previous expedition. You must tell me all about it! I brought my latest recipe," she says, flipping her satchel open to reveal a bottle of something a rich amber in colour. "And in the possible case it's not any good..." she adds, her voice trailing to fall on a nicer, known bottle that was clearly liberated with dubious permission.

Reynart's warm grin is a mark of his approval. "We'll try your new concoction and we can catch each other up, deal? It was an easy raid. Not much of a raid at all, really. Nobody died, nobody was even seriously injured. Prince Jerod had the fear of him struck so deep in their bones in Gateway there was hardly any fighting. He's not a man to cross."

"Any worthy trophies? Were they all easy? Seemed like much to do to need our assistance for a task that easy, although it works in our favour to have a Prince in our debt," Rowen ask and inadvertently slips into pondering aloud.

"We were there," Reynart opines, "as a show of force. Prince Jerod wanted backup in case they weren't wise enough to do as he bid. But had they been so unwise--" and he shrugs there. "I think he's not sorry to be bound closer to us."

Were they at the castle, there might have been goblets, but this was out on the docks. A slender hand dips into the satchel and withdraws the amber bottle. A corkscrew appears with a sleight flourish of the hand and soon the bottle is opened and offered to the other redhead as the sacrificial test subj--uh, honoured guest--to sample. "This one, I tried a mixture of cloves, orange, and something else," she presents, arching a brow on the final ingredient.

Rowen climbs up onto a wooden rail nearby and sits on top of it, resting her feet on the rail below. "He did not bring you back, though? Who is this other Amberite with the Count?"

She takes the bottle back after he's taken a swig and fills a mouthful herself, letting the liquor rest on her tongue to test the taste.

The mystery ingredient was a very sugary cherry (or local equivalent).

Reynart has a mouthful of the stuff and lets it flow over his tongue, nodding. Not a failure, from his expression. To Rowen's taste it's a little too sweet as whiskies go. Maybe a little longer to mellow out next time.

He leans beside Rowen on the rail, lowering his voice a little as he talks.

Rowen turns her head just a hint, meeting his voice with her ear and signaling her keen interest.

"The Amberite who came with is double-cousin to Prince Jerod: their fathers were brothers and their mothers are sisters. His name is Martin and apparently he and Prince Jerod are sworn brothers, so he's fulfilling the Prince's promise to bring us home. He has his daughter with him--a wee cub of five or six, I should think." The interpretation of which Reynart leaves as an exercise for Rowen.

"Another Prince, then? And his cub," she says, her voice trailing off in thought. "How many of them are there?" "A lot," Reynart injects, but doesn't add anything more that might change Rowen's direction.

She perks up suddenly and adds, "Oh! I found a book today," in a way that makes 'found' sound typically less innocuous. "In a tower, where I took a Wizard today!" She plants her fists proudly on her hips and waggles a brow. "By myself. We should go back to the tower and take a closer look. There's a trove of interesting things there." She takes another swig and passes the bottle back to her brother.

"Aye, we should when all this is done. Or we can arrange for you to meet the Prince if you'd ratherrrrrr." Reynart prolongs the last word teasingly, reaching for Rowen's bottle to take another swig.

The jest catches her mouth agape, quickly compressed into a microburst of guilt, before ending in a laugh. "I was trying not to be too eager. Who wouldn't want to meet a Prince? Especially one from Amber. I wonder if he's in this book," she says, pulling the book she took from the Wizard from her bag. It's pretty old. Perhaps older than the Prince.

"Mm, well, he's something of a scandal, or was, so he might be." Handing back the bottle, Reynart starts to flip his way through the book, casually. His written Thari isn't fluent, certainly not so much as Rowen's, but he's definitely looking at things like chapter headings to see what they say.

Rowen reaches out for the bottle and swirls it around a bit before bringing it up to her lips for another swig. Silently, her foot taps out an unheard beat, with her heel hooked over one of the railings of her perch. "That's rather juicy. Does he strike you as scandalous?" she says, her lips parting into a wide, mischievous grin.

Reynart finds one he likes and puts a finger on the page so he can look up and add, "Anyhow, Prince Martin wants to meet with you. He was a friend of Cambina's. So we'll have to put off our wizard trip until after that."

Rowen straightens up with a staccato jerk. "Me? He wants to meet me?" She claps her hands together and concedes a short bark of a laugh. "I hope he has stories about Cambina," she wonders aloud, wistfully taking another swig of her liquor before offering it back to Reynart. "When I left the castle, he was still busy with the Count. No idea how long they'll be cloistered together. No doubt the Count has... plans. What have you got there?" she asks, her attention finally flitting back to where he had pinned his finger.

"Trying to find the scandal of Prince Martin for you," Reynart explains in a voice that's only slightly chiding. "I forget all the details, but he's half-Rebman and his mother was a Rebman princess. The scandal is mostly about his father." The details are clearly not that important. Whatever the story is, it doesn't affect Reynart's opinion much, but he judges on things other than manners and social mores.

Rowen purses her lips, rolling the information around in her mind. Absentmindedly, out of turn, she brings the bottle back in for another swig and leaves it conveniently near at hand between them. A lightbulb, no, a gas lamp, no, a torch flares up over her head in an anachronistic butchering of metaphor. "Oh! He's a bridge! A union of the two Heavens! His father would be from the True Earth and his mother from True Water. Amber and Rebma, mirrors of each other, even in name. She takes note of his unspoken opinion, but presses verbally, "He's honourable, then?"

Reynart has to think about a good answer to that. "I think so. Willing enough to handle this business for Prince Jerod and take it seriously. Some of the Princes of Amber of old might not have done the same." He perks up. "Does that make Prince Jerod a bridge between the heavens as well? What about Cambina?"

"Amber and Rebma would be the heavens," Rowen says, illustrating with her hands, still holding the bottle. Amber's the bottle. "Cambina would be a bridge between Amber and, well, here. Hardly a heaven. Prince Jerod would be a bridge to something too. He wouldn't be a bridge between heavens unless his mother came from Rebma, Paris or the Land of Youth. Did he say where his mother came from?"

"His mother's the sister of Prince Martin's mother, so I reckon yes, he's another of your bridges between Heavens. If you want to call those lands a Heaven." Reynart is a practical fellow who doesn't take the Weir legends that seriously. Rowen has him beat hands down by that measure.

Rowen draws the map in her mind and with her voice. "Their mothers are sisters of one Heaven and their fathers are... cousins? Maybe not of the same generation." She's definitely more into these kinds of trees.

"Brothers. In the half blood, both get of Oberon from different dams." Reynart shuts the book and offers it back to Rowen. "So tell me all about the wizard and what troubles we've got on that front."

She exchanges it for the bottle and tucks the book back in her satchel. He's seen that look in her eye before. She'll probably be poring over it all night. In the meantime, "Remember the wizard that sent the beastmen the day Prince Jerod returned with Sir Andries and the others? He was a little like that one, though, not as effective or powerful. We finished the other one off not long after you left. It was very bloody," she says, flashing him a grin. She rolls her shoulders forward, dipping her chin predatorily.

Reynart grins. "I'm sorry I missed it."

"This one was older, not as effective, but still a thorn in the old man's side. But! He made me track him for nearly half a year before letting me take him. I don't know why he waited so long." Reynart probably knows. Rowen may too. She may be playing stupid. "Anyway, I grabbed him. Let his apprentice go. Hope the kid's smart enough to go back and loot the place." She flicks a glance at the others nearby and shuffles closer to her brother and lowers her voice. "Here's the strange part. There was another of our kind in the wizard's tower. I only smelled him. Fair chance they smelled me, too. Locked him in the room and went about my business. What do you think? Is the wizard allying with another clan, or was he also there to raid the wizard's tower?" And breathe.

Reynart frowns, working his way through that problem. "Which clan do you think would ally with a wizard? Archerstaad? Bluthgelt? More likely someone was there to raid the tower, but without knowing who was there, we can't say that much." He thinks about this for a moment more and stares at Rowen. "Would you recognize whoever this was if you smelled them again? If there was a moot or something and you got a chance to smell a lot of strangers?"

Her eyes go up and to the left, considering, sifting through her memory for that particular one. "I think I can. I didn't get a great sniff, but I think I can find it again. Are there any moots coming up?" Possible Prince Martin's appearance may warrant a celebration, but there's no guarantee of that. Or that he would stay for a while, for that matter. "Doesn't seem likely that any of the clans would want anything to do with a wizard. I wouldn't even put that on Archerstaad or Bluthgelt. Stranger things have happened, though."

"Could be an oathbreaker. You'll have to report it to the Count." Reynart shake his head, a bit like he's shaking off muddy water that he's sorry was dumped onto his pelt. "It's his problem, not ours unless he makes it ours." He sounds like he suspects the Count would like to make it his, or maybe Rowen's, and he's not too keen on that. "If you go up to make the report, now, we could probably get you in. I think given that we were in Gateway, news of a wizard would interest the Count and his guest."

He waggles his eyebrows at Rowen.

"Well, if you're all done with that," she replies, trailing off into a flick of her chin that could easily encompass the bottle in his hands or the unloading of the ship or both. She hops off the beam, demoting it from a perch back to a mere railing. Landing nimbly on soft boots, she makes only a slight jingle and a muffled slosh. She straightens her vest, then capers around him a gentle arc. The observant might notice her hand closing and securing her satchel. At the apex, she drops her jaw, flicks the tip of her tongue off her teeth, and drops the challenge, "Race you back to the castle!" The moment he gives even the vaguest agreement, she bolts.

Knowing better than to say anything, Reynart starts running by way of answer. Rowen has a head start on him and her gear is ready, where his really isn't. It's a hard fought race all the way up, but Rowen ekes out a victory, and Reynart ends up bent over laughing in the courtyard. "Well run," he tells her between gasps. "The victory is yours, sister. What prize do you claim?"

Rowen joins him in laughter, wrapping him in a warm embrace, while the nearby Weir observed in their usual serious and intense fashion. All in good fun and playfulness, she helps straighten him up, tidying up his shirt to make him presentable. As always, hers looks impeccable. "How about that introduction?" A beat. "And a sweet treat."

"Treats afterwards," Reynart says easily. "Meetings first." He leads Rowen into the castle, such as it is, and toward the private chamber where the Count meets his guests. He raps on the door and the Count himself opens it. He looks at Reynart and Rowen, and says, "Yes?" not sounding particularly pleased to be interrupted.

"My sister Rowen has returned, and has intelligence for you, my lord," Reynart says respectfully. "And perhaps of interest to your guest."

The Count looks at Rowen, not unkindly, but clearly expects this news to be important. "Is this aught we should speak of in private?"

"I'll be brief and you can decide," Rowen offers, though a quick intake of breath signals something else entirely. While her eyes remain steady and fixated on the Count across the twenty-nine syllables of her high-level summary, her hands come together to lace her fingers together, at times twisting into unnatural angles, until they come steady and clasped firmly in front of her. She lowers her voice, "The Wizard has been captured and returned. During his capture, I discovered another of our kind in his tower." Uncharacteristically, she holds true to her promise of brevity, but she remains eager to continue.

"Let's hear her story," comes an unfamiliar voice from inside the chamber.

The Count gestures them into the room. "Reynart you know, Your Highness. May I present Rowen, daughter of Whisper-of-Death? This is His Highness, Prince Martin of Amber and Rebma."

The redheaded woman steps forward when introduced. Young, though of adult age, she considers for a moment the typical greetings of her clan against those she'd learned for the Court of Amber, ultimately choosing to use the latter, though the curtsey might have looked better if she weren't wearing trousers. "A pleasure, Your Highness," she greets. "Whisper-of-Death was my mother," she confirms. "She and my sister, your cousin, spent some time in Amber before the path was cut off."

Martin is of about average height, compact, and carries himself like he's been in enough fights that he's confident about the outcome if someone comes after him. He's got short-cropped blond hair and is wearing well-made clothes: leathers that would serve to blunt the blows of small weapons, fine cottons touched with lace in the edges. He stood up from his chair when Rowen entered.

With him is a small girl of about six years who stands up in the chair he'd probably been sitting in. She might have been on the floor before, and it seems like the Count had almost forgotten her. There's a flash of something on his face that might be awkward embarrassment or annoyance when the girl speaks up and says, "I'm Lark. Are you my cousin?"

"As 'cousin' as anyone could be, I guess?" Rowen response with a soft laugh. She offers the child a part-curtsey, part-bow that bears more influence from the Weir greeting. Continuously open, drinking every detail around, her dark eyes are wide set on an angular face, giving her an ethereal air that's enhanced by her paleness and slenderness. In contrast to the Prince's finery, her leathers are purely functional, though also precisely tailored to her figure.

Martin nods, once.

"Would you like to hear a story, then?" she says to the men in the room, though the question includes the young girl.

"As the Count had requested, I ranged out to capture the Wizard on his usual path, but this time he had clerics in tow," she begins, wrinkling her nose while naming the Wizard's accompaniment. "I tracked them back to the Wizard's tower where I learned that they were there to verify an offering of gold to one of the lords in the valley wasn't cursed," she continues, omitting the capture of the boy for the sake of present company.

"I waited for the clerics to leave, so I could take the Wizard alone. However, I wasn't. When I infiltrated the tower," she says, illustrating for Lark with a flurry of fingers, "I discovered another Weir within. I never saw them, but it wasn't anyone I recognized by smell. I trapped them in the room with what was available, long enough for me to grab the Wizard. Given the circumstances, it didn't seem prudent to leave the Wizard alone to investigate further. No doubt, they would have escaped from the room by then. It wouldn't have been difficult."

She flicks a glance toward Reynart, "We weren't sure what to make of it. They could have been another raider, but they may have been an oathbreaker."

"Our cousin Brita knows people by smell, too," Lark says before any of the adults can respond. Martin is clearly used to his daughter's running commentary and seems to find it more amusing than annoying.

"Tell me about the clerics," Martin suggests. He's focused in on that part of the story.

"Most of this information came from an apprentice and hasn't been verified, yet. The 'clerics' supposedly came from the church, but they could have clerks of some other sort," she begins. "They had odd haircuts and, if you have been present near real poverty, you can tell they weren't, but were trying to appear that way. They did not look like they would last long in a fight, more prey than predator. They were out of place in the forest and stank of the city. Whatever they found, they seemed satisfied with it when they left."

Martin turns to the Count. "That's not good news. Especially if we don't know what they were sniffing around, or what information they were given."

"Indeed, Your Highness." The Count is clearly displeased by Rowen's news, but not at her. She'd scent that kind of danger and it's not there.

"If Rowen is in danger, then she'll need to come with us. No two ways about it." Martin's very firm on that point.

Lark jumps out of the chair and comes over to Rowen. "Come with us. Daddy and I have all the best adventures."

"I'd wager you have some great stories to tell?" Rowen asks, gently resting a hand on the child's shoulder.

Lark grins; she's clearly taken with Rowen.

Rowen flashes back a bright but toothless smile, and a subtly playful flick of the brow, that disappears just as quickly since the conversation seems to be at odds.

To the men, "Danger? What danger? The Wizard was captured. If the clerics return, they'll find an empty tower, perhaps a ransacked one. What is so concerning about these clerics that I would be in danger?"

The Count clearly looks to Martin to answer this one; more of a deferral than a lack of understanding. Martin takes up the baton. "The clerics are related to, or members of, depending on how we count things, members of a group that has a--" he pauses and searches for the right word.

Lark pipes up "Vendetta?"

Assured of Lark's attention, Rowen gives her a mild scrunch of the face, as if to ask, "What do yo know about vendettas?" without audibly interrupting.

"No, sweetheart," Martin says patiently. "Close, but not right. More of an unhealthy interest in the royal family of Amber. Interest of the sort that involves kidnapping people and experimenting on them. And you might be a person of such interest, Rowen, because you're Whisper's daughter and Cambina's sister."

Sometimes words mean things, sometimes they mean something else for the sake of context or convenience. Rowen assumes the latter and glances at Reynart. "What is it about women that makes them of particular interest?" she asks, following an internal line of logic that may have bypassed another question that was more relevant. "What have they been doing to their victims?"

"Oh, they take men too," Martin says, noting the direction of her gaze. "I have a number of concerns but they're not for discussion in this company."

Lark says, "Daddy, you should tell her all about the monks!"

"I will, sweetheart, later," Martin reassures her. "For the moment let's leave it at questions of lineage and potentially of--breeding stock." His thin smile does not reach his eyes. "Reynart could certainly accompany you, if the Count can spare him."

The Count looks at Reynart. "If Your Highness thinks it wise."

Reynart looks at Rowen.

"You could be in danger, too," Rowen says, simply, bordering on a question. The subtle hunch of her shoulders may convey her desire more loudly than a whisper, for all the Weir in the room. Looking back to the Prince, she adds, "He is also Whisper's and brother to Cambina." The last few syllables come just a hair slower than the rest. Her eyes narrow correspondingly, heightening her focus. "Would you elaborate on 'breeding stock'?"

She purses her lips as another thought catches up to her. "We are called Weir. The land is called Monk. 'Monks' are something... different?" she asks, seeking to clarify an unfamiliar word.

"I don't know the etymology of it, but I think it's coincidental. Or they took up the name of 'monk' after you," Martin says. It's not a dismissal, but Martin's clearly not concerned. "Their outposts go by many names. Monk is only one word for their kind. And--we can discuss more of what they would do later." His gaze rests for a moment on his daughter.

"Whyyyy?" Lark asks.

"Because little pitchers have big ears." Martin's tone is firm.

Reynart is hiding a smile; the Count is hiding mild annoyance. If Martin can sense either, it's not obvious to Rowen. Lark glances at Reynart, and probably has caught the smile, and then back at Rowen. "Can Mister Reynart come with us?"

It's easy for Martin to indulge the child, clearly. "Yes, Mister Reynart can come with us, if he can be spared."

I'd very much like him to come with us, is what Rowen wants to say, but instead she casts a glance toward the Count. "Sir Andries recently returned with our brethren who had gone with Prince Eric and the recent mission has returned as well," she says, doing the accounting of troop strength over and above what he had at his disposal less than a year ago. She gives Martin a grateful smile. "Where are we going and how much time do we have to prepare?"

"Ultimately to Amber, or Xanadu, most likely, but there will be stops along the way."

Rowen's eyes widen and her jaw drops with a silent gasp at the naming of That Place. The small hairs on her body stand up, electrified, though it's likely unnoticeable outside the Weir. Lark, being a child and unencumbered with adult sensibilities, might detect the shift in energy.

Lark is watching Rowen with interest.

Reynart is amused. The Count is--if she had to put a name on it, the Count is afraid. Not of Amber, for Rowen.

"How long will you need to gather your things?" Martin asks, and seems to be including Reynart in the question, though it's primarily directed at Rowen. "We'll have a few days here, but I'd rather not delay longer than that."

The Count says, "Your Highness is welcome as long you wish to stay."

Martin nods graciously. "I appreciate your welcome, Your Lordship, but duty does call. The royal family, like your own house, must serve as well as rule."

"I don't need much," Rowen answers his question, glancing at Reynart for confirmation on his part. It's expected though; she saw how he 'packed' for the Gateway raid and she wouldn't differ much from it. Except... "If we will be away for some time, I'd like to bring my books. Whatever Your Highness thinks is acceptable to carry."

It's entirely possible that Rowen, by this point, has spoken more than any other Weir that Lark has encountered. Every time an R shows up in a word, it rolls out with a delicateness unlike the growls from the men.

"Books are fine. We can spare a trunk or two, and let's be sure to wrap them well to keep them from the damp." Martin has the ease of a man who's used to bringing or getting whatever he needs wherever he goes.

It's clear to Rowen that none of them expect her to return to Valistaad afterwards.

(Should Martin care to assess the collection before committing to anything, they can take a look. Let's say it's about a medium-sized bookcase's worth for the entire collection, not including the most recent additions in her satchel. They can probably all fit into a large trunk. Or take a subset of them if they need to be more mobile.)

"Will we be coming back?" Rowen asks inside a pause, looking between the Prince and the Count.

"I'm sure you'll be able to come back in time, but not for a while," Martin says. "It's complicated, but I'll explain as best I can when we're on our way."

If Reynart and the Count were in their wolf forms, they'd be in that stage of fighting down your instinctive hackles because a bigger wolf of unknown temper is in the room. Martin is apparently, in their world view, a very big dog. And possibly not entirely a tame one.

Rowen takes note of their reactions, and while some of their concerns rustle through her own hairs, she finds herself--attracted isn't quite the right word--drawn to the Prince in a vague way. She gives him some deferential space, her loose stance communicating to her kinfolk, "Understood."

The benefit of being Weir is that there isn’t a strong attachment to stuff, which means there's not a lot for Rowen to gather, aside from her anomalous library.

Likely unable to shake the little girl's attention, and to the relief of the men, she allows Lark to join her while she packs, having her help wrap the books. All the while she patters about this and that, giving her little stories about where a book came from or what it's about. Unfortunately not many are story books, but she tells some anyway.

Lark is indeed curious, and happy to help pack. She can read a number of languages, is very interested in the books, and also in any weapons Rowen is bringing with her.

Her curiosity may only be slightly satisfied by the appearance of a smallsword, something perhaps more suited for court than for the hard life of slaying. "A gift from my mother," Rowen narrates, as she slides it briefly from the sheath. "She said it may be useful some day, when I would visit Amber." She grows wistful for a moment, for the gift was given at a time when it seemed they might still see Cambina there. Recovering quickly, she resheathes it once Lark has had her fill, and places it in the chest.

"Don't worry about me, though," she adds with a wink, springing a dagger out of a hiding place, and just as quickly disappearing it with sleight of hand.

This absolutely delights Lark.

Lark tells wild stories of uncertain truth--but with surprising verisimilitude--about traveling with her father, who is, among other things, a musician. Her tales also include fighting zombies with her Aunt Solange and visiting Rebma, where Martin grew up, and talking to the Tritons there.

Two, maybe three of those things may have come up in Rowen's studies, but the "zombies" are completely foreign to her and she prompts for an explanation as the last shelf of books progressively stack into the trunk.

At the end of it all, books and a few keepsakes are sealed in the trunk. As a reward, Lark gets a coin, which Rowen dances across her knuckles before presenting it. On one side, a decorative moon. On the other, some markings, probably denoting value.

Lark is delighted and thanks Rowen! She tucks it away with a few other treasures she seems to keep on her person. (One of them might be a knife.)

Rowen allows herself a sly little smile, catching the glimpse of the blade, but makes no other indication that she'd seen it.

With the necessary business handled, she makes her rounds to say her goodbyes (or goodbye-for-nows). It doesn’t take long.

There is a feast that night for the Prince and the successful returning Weir, with a distribution of treasure and gifts, including a necklace for Rowen that Reynart puts on her at the table. That gift will travel with her and she will appear as an honored lady when she arrives in Amber.

The gift is received with absolute delight. Leaning into the presentation, she beams and marvels at the necklace, her slender fingers tracing its contours. In the more scrutinized setting of the feast, she thanks him in their culture's fashion, first clasping hands, then by the forearm, and then touch of the forehead, the latter of which would be reserved for the closest relations.

As is common at such events, there is song and dance, and Prince Martin proves himself a musician with the cittern, after turning down the offer of a bodhran with the wry jest that he's not a drummer. He turns out to have a handsome voice and a willingness to play or sing without leading the ensemble. He's also an accomplished dancer. Some of the women are looking at him with interest, but Lark's mentions of her mother have left Rowen pretty sure that there's a wife in the picture and it's unlikely the Prince is looking for that kind of company.

While he does offer Rowen a dance twice, strictly in accordance with propriety, he does not offer a third time. He dances with every other woman he offers for only once.

In proper response, she accepts both offers and acquits herself well, and as well as many of the other women, coming from a kind so steeped in physicality. The style is beautiful, yet there is a hint more aggressiveness in the movements than he may be accustomed to.

Between Martin's invitations to the dance floor, she seeks out the Count in his seat of honour with his favourite drink. Despite all the youthful antagonism, he's still a bit of a father figure to her. At first, they share their drinks in silence, slight shifts in their body doing the speaking. Gratitude from her, concern for him, and finally, vocally, "I know I have not been an easy ward to raise. Do you have any advice for me in this journey?"

"You will repay all by keeping Weirmonken in your thoughts once you assume the power of Amber," the Count answers Rowen. "For yourself, remember, you are a woman and a wolf, and now you will run with two packs. Running so tore your mother and your sister apart. Tread carefully to avoid their fate."

Lark is also an enthusiastic dancer, though she gets to exercise herself mostly under her father's close supervision.

Despite the men's bristling over her father, the cubs of the pack have no such concerns and eagerly dance and play with Lark, teaching her some of their dances. More than a few times, a parent would drift by to remind them not to be too rambunctious, regardless of how enthusiastic Lark might be.

When the celebrations finally begin to wind down, Rowen, and no doubt many others, wait for the Prince to take his leave before taking their own. However, rather than retreat to her now packed-up room, she makes her way up to one of the higher walkways of the castle to enjoy the moonlight and night air, perhaps to even spend the night there.