“There is no greater sin than that of betrayal.” –ancient quote, often spoken of in reference to Church Doctrine, but without basis in the Compilations.

  Atilan saw ahead of them his intended destination. It was a small little cafe, tucked away on the eastern side of the Sunbrick Inn. The inn was a massive building, constructed around an old grain silo refitted to serve as a central hub of food and conversation. It was the most famous building in the city, perhaps on the entire western coast of Artaghan–not that there was much competition. Yellowbriar was a more reserved space, in comparison. A single story building of plastered walls painted yellow, adorned with a great deal of plant life. Despite Atilan’s early words to the Inquisitors, it was not packed, and as they entered, there were only a few customers, all apart and sat in separate booths. The room was smoky from a burning fireplace and the lit pipes of several denizens. Atilan nodded to Heather, the owner. She wore a headscarf as was the fashion and a fancy dress of white with a brown corset overtop. Her hair was tied up in a tight bun and she was running around while her husband was busy making a couple cups of coffee.

  “Sir Vessel, visiting again are you?” Heather asked, voice sweet as can be.

  Her husband twisted from his drinks and glanced at Atilan showing the gap in his teeth. “Ello Atilan!” He called.

  Heather plunked him over the head with a rolled up bit of paper. “What have I said about propriety Owen? Back to work if you can’t not make a fool of yourself!” Heather turned back to Atilan and adopted her overly fierce smile again. “What can I do for you?”

  “My usual, seat and drink.” Atilan glanced at Lacian, who seemed to be looking at them with a curious and slightly bemused look. “Anything for you?”

  “I am quite good, I never was one for coffee, too bitter for my taste.”

  “Bitter?” Heather said. “Not here, we make it sweet as can be, I’ll get you something nice and tasty!” Heather leaned in towards Atilan, eyeing Lacian with suspicion. “What does the purple shawl mean Sir Vessel dear?”

  Atilan leaned in himself, and gave a conspiratorial grin–this was exactly what he needed. Not the coffee, or the food, but a moment of levity–I think it means he’s full of himself.”

  She let out a squeal of glee, as Lacian took his duty in stride and pretended not to notice. “You want the private room?”

  “Yes ma’am,” Atilan replied. “As quiet as you can assure.”

  “Always Sir. Vessel!” She turned away in a flurry of movement, “Alright you old lummox, we have work to do!,” she shouted at her husband.

  Atilan began to walk towards the back room, where he procured a key and unlocked the door. It was simple and painted green. Lacian glided into the room. “Energetic,” he commented.

  “You should see her on a busy day,” Atilan replied. “But she is a good person, and she can provide a room away from prying eyes and ears. I’ve spilled some of my soul to you, now spill your secrets.”

  Lacian took a seat. The room was small, but well cared for. Panels of dark wood made up the walls, though most of them were hidden by paintings from local artists. They couldn’t afford anything better, save for one by Mortimer Le’Arthur. Atilan had gifted it to them, anonymously, Heather wouldn’t have accepted otherwise. It depicted the first meeting of elves and man, when humanity first arrived from the Broken Land. It was far too cheery, for how reality ended up. There was too much agreement, cooperation. It was a thing of beauty, but only a mask for reality. Still, it was beautiful, the detail and artistry immaculate. The table was fit for four, and the cushions divine. Atilan took a seat himself.

  Lacian sighed, interlocking fingers. “I need your help.”

  “Yet you still delay telling me what it is that brought you here,” Atilan said, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. Was it so difficult for some honesty after sharing some already?

  Lacian looked uncomfortable, worried. He leaned in closer.”I admitted fault on my part. I came to this realization after doing some investigation. How many people can High Strand Atilan?”

  “One,” Atilan said, feeling confused. “Myself. Though, as I told all the Elders, Mellow had the capability as well before…” Atilan trailed off. He did not like thinking of his crimes, even though he had come to terms with it years ago.

  “Right, just yourself, and Mellow.”

  “Which you and the other Elders dismissed as lunacy,” Atilan interjected.

  “That’s what I am getting at. I believe you Atilan.”

  Atilan raised an eyebrow. “What has changed your mind?” His hand was trembling. Years he had spent outside the normal workings of the Church because of this, and now, one of the Elders was crawling back to him. At least he apologized. Atilan reined in his emotions, he was supposed to be better than this.

  “Several things. I am sorry for doubting you. High Stranding is supposed to be rare, rarer than one in a generation, it should have been impossible for Mellow to display the ability as well. But, I was doing research into an old apprentice of mine, he passed away suddenly a few years ago. When I looked into Saunder’s death, I discovered several of his records had vanished from the Church’s archive. I thought that odd, so I went to ask his family some questions, and they were all gone.”

  “Gone?” Atilan asked.

  “Yes, gone. Like they had vanished off the edge of the world. Almost no one in town knew of them. But I managed to discover one person who had known them. They lived as a sewer rat, but had not always. Once they had been one of the personal guards to Saunder’s family.”

  “Which family?” Atilan asked.

  “The Marshgraves.” The name was familiar to Atilan. He thought they were one of the mercantile class, which had slowly been gaining more power and notoriety in recent years.

  “The entire family, or just some of them?”

  “Not the entire family, no. That would have been cause for suspicion. Just a few of them, gone without a trace. When I tried to gather more intel, I was rudely pushed away. However, this guard I spoke to claimed they had been killed in the middle of the night and disappeared. He claimed he had seen a figure clad in red in the corner of his eye the night it happened. He was declared incompetent for failing to protect them, and was banished, left unable to find work.”

  “And this man, where is he?”

  Lacian sighed, turning away. “Dead. The morning after I spoke to him, I found him hung from a noose. Suicide, on the face of it at least.”

  “Hell of a timing,” Atilan muttered, drawing a glare from his swear by Lacian. Atilan ignored him. “You believe foul play?”

  “I don’t know. I was not trained for this. I am an old man Atilan, and was always a Pastor, not an Inquisitor.”

  “So why me, why not ask one of the other Inquisitors for help?”

  Lacian swallowed, looking around. “Because, the reason I suspect this happened, was due to the reason I began looking into my old apprentice. He sent me a letter, days before his passing, though I only just found it. Apparently, it had been sent by a private courier, who had been accosted on the road. It would have never again seen the light of day, if not for a common folk who happened upon the sight the next morn. He got the letter, and wanted to deliver it to me, but feared he might be in trouble for the crime. I happened to have been passing through his village, and the High Father must have favored me, for this man saw me and had the letter on his person. A miracle, I must say.”

  “And the contents. Saunder could High Strand, couldn’t he,” Atilan said, putting the pieces together.

  “Yes,” Lacian said, a grave cast to his face. “And he feared he was being watched by Inquisitors. He suspected that someone in the Church high up was eliminating people who could High Strand. He thought I could save him, protect him. Unfortunately, I have proven quite incapable of protecting people I care for,” Lacian said, now staring down at his legs. Atilan suspected Lacian was crying, so he turned away. Lacian would not want Atilan to see what he considered a weakness. It wasn’t, but still many thought bottling up emotions would lead to anything other than an explosive reaction eventually.

  “And me. You figure I am the only person in the Church you can be certain is not a part of this scheme?”

  “Yes,” Lacian said, his voice hoarse. “We have denied you, called you insane, left you to work on your own with little in the way of structure. And you have still managed to do more on your own than the entire Church has in the same time. I have heard of your efforts in Ghost and it makes my heart weep for what you have done. I am an old fool Atilan, and I need help.”

  Atilan stood up and kneeled beside the Elder. “Well, lucky for you, I am already on the war path. If your sewer rat is right, the Red Wraith is involved there, which means she is tied to the Church. Even if he is wrong, I suspect I am going to be mired in conspiracy already, so what is a bit more to handle?” Atilan held a hand out to him. Lacian took it, and Atilan saw the tears in the old man’s eyes.

  “Thank you,” he wheezed and he kissed Atilan’s hand. “I do not deserve your help.” Finally, Lacian cried, no longer hiding it.

  Atilan smiled. “It is the duty of the Vessel to help those in need. Besides, if blood has been spilled, I will avenge it. Do you have the letter Saunder sent you?”

  Lacian shook his head. “No, it did not survive the journey here. I was careless.”

  Atilan gritted his teeth, pushing down frustration. It couldn’t be helped. “Where did he live?”

  “Absolution.”

  “Then I am soon to return home,” Atilan said. He had not been to Absolution since a little after he killed Mellow, when he had his last meeting with the Elders. And the time before that had been his Ascension. What a string of reasons to visit the Church’s capital, their own city. “I will leave as soon as I can, but I have other matters to tend here first, Elder Lacian.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  “Of course,” Lacian replied, standing up. “I will not stop you. Though I will recommend you get some sleep.”

  Atilan shook his head. “Not yet, I have more to do.” Now that the conversation was dying down, he could feel the weariness creeping back upon him, inevitable as the setting of the sun. “Soon.” He could almost feel the weight of his own mysterious note in his pocket, telling him where to meet.

  There was a knock at the door, and Atilan nearly leapt out his own skin. It ended up just to be Heather, bringing food and coffee. He thanked her and bustled her away quickly, the smell of the food divine and making his stomach growl. Lacian looked just as hungry, seeing the stacks of pancakes dripping with fresh syrup.

  They ate without much more talking, Atilan needed a moment to let his mind wander, think upon everything he had left to do. So much to do, it never seemed to end, and the more he thought on it, the more it seemed to sprawl out like an endless web. But, he would slowly untangle it, unravel its mystery. Or he would get caught up in it and eaten as a spider’s meal. Either way, it would be dealt with. Joyous thoughts today.

  When food was had, and coffee turned into substitute for sleep, Atilan stood, pushing his chair back in. “The Inquisitors with you,” Atilan said. “Do you trust them?”

  “I don’t know if I trust anyone.”

  “A solid attitude to have, in situations like we’re in. But also one that will ruin you. If you squeak at every shadow, your paranoia can bring you down just as easily as conspiracy. Find people to trust, surround yourself with them. Not everyone is part of this, in fact most will not. Keep that in mind. I must go now.”

  As Atilan began to exit the room, Lacian followed. “Atilan?” Atilan kept walking, but nodded to show he was listening. “Thank you again. I will try and keep in touch.”

  “Then we shall talk soon. If my searches dig anything up before I leave town, or you do, I will let you know.” and Atilan walked out the door.

  How was it already almost the afternoon? Atilan’s body felt heavy, he seemed to see himself move rather than experience the act of movement himself. He stopped, blinking away weariness. Light flickered as he tried to ordain High Strands. It faltered, and for a second, he stumbled. He clenched his hands, felt his teeth grinding against each other. Then water frigid as the north fell atop him, drenching him from head to toe.

  Exhaustion melted away as shock and adrenaline jolted his body and mind into action. Lacian stood at the doorway, silver Strands surrounding him. “I figured you could use a bit of wakefulness. I pray you are not too upset.”

  Atilan shook his head, water raining out from him. “No, in fact, I might owe you a favor for that one. My thanks to you, Elder.” With a spring to his step once more, Atilan walked with purpose. Atilan’s destination was soon found, right as the sun reached its zenith above the world. A small alley between the Sunbrick Inn and Maveryn’s was draped in shadow, the buildings beside it too tall for sunlight to filter down. Atilan glanced around. The streets were thronged with people, though less than should be out at this time of day: last night’s events would make people jittery and not too keen to be about. The alley itself was abandoned and destitute. It was one of those places in a city which lacked purpose, an accident brought about by poor planning. Neither connected building had an entrance from the alley, and you can only reach it by a side street, not a main one.. Atilan saw a poorly strung together tarp hung between a few poles jutting from old awnings of Maveryn’s.

  He strode towards it, paying as much attention to his surroundings as possible. This could very well be a trap. He cursed himself for forgoing sleep, but what else could he have done? Already, his icy shock was waning and he felt the heaviness of his eyelids. Still, he walked forward. There was no one beneath the tarp, though there was evidence of it having a frequent resident. Atilan waved a hand, and watched as a few loaves of bread were conjured from a few gold Strands. It was a pittance of a gift, but the best he could offer. There was little value in conjured food. It would taste blander, filling a stomach less than bread made by hand, yet it was better than nothing.

  There were no signs of life in the alley other than that, not even the skittering of mice or rats, or droppings of pigeons. Atilan could feel the note in his pocket like a stone. It never specified a time, an inconvenient thing. Would Atilan have to wait around, or was this some trick. There were no windows looking out here, but someone could be hiding on a rooftop. Most of them were angled too high to perch upon, but a few could make a half-way decent spot for an archer. There were few avenues of escape here–at least for most people. Atilan had a decent grasp of architecture and was sure he could make doors through either building without much structural damage. Both buildings would be dangerous to try and climb up with pillars, especially if potential assassins were smart and placed archers at multiple vantage points. He needed to see to continue to make a path and thus could not be entirely boxed in.

  Atilan realized he was holding onto the hilt of the horn. He did not lower his grip, though. He was nervous, and that was an odd feeling. How long had it been since he had felt worried? He looked around, the sun continued along its spiral, now slowly descending beneath the world. He leaned against a wall, and waited.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  An hour passed. He could have spoken with the Lusamyre, sought out Lydia and the other Wraiths, spoken with Jehan, done so much with this time. And he was wasting it away staying put hoping some mysterious stranger would answer questions. Perhaps this was the game, making him waste time while they forwarded a plot.

  But he would never have been here in the first place without this note, not this quickly at least.

  So, he still waited.

  Another hour passed. Exhaustion threatened to collapse him. Atilan found himself blinking into sleep for a moment. He was an amateur right now, if someone intended him dead, he would have given them ample opportunity. Anger though, now kept him awake. How dare this person expend his time. He threw himself from the wall, and began to stalk away. What a ridiculous waste of his precious time.

  And then he saw the man hobbling around the corner, making for the alley. Atilan recognized him, scarred and crooked, he was Caistlin, a mercenary well known in the area. Atilan wasn’t sure where he came from, but in the last year, he had gained a reputation for efficient work. “Not who I was expecting,” Atilan remarked, eyeing the man. Caistlin leaned heavily on a cane, and his limp was pronounced. He clearly had suffered terrible injuries which still ailed him. His face was barely recognizable as human, left marred and gashed, the scars having healed poorly. Yet, he moved with a spryness, and had a lucid and discerning look in his eyes of summer skies.

  Caistlin shrugged, “You know me?” Atilan pursed his lips, looking at him. Caistlin made an effort to sound cordial, but there was a temper behind the words, an illicit rage. Interesting.

  “Only by reputation,” Atilan said, and glanced around. Best not let himself be caught off guard now. “I make an effort to know those who work in my part of the world.” Atilan ordained Strands, summoning two chairs for them, and took a seat. Sweat beaded on his forehead from the effort. Caistlin looked at the chair like it smelled foul, and continued to stand. Suit himself. Proving he can stand on his own would earn no additional respect. Who would forgo a chair so clearly pained?

  “I am pleased to hear my reputation precedes me,” Caistlin said, and finally used the chair, though only to twist it around and lean his arms on it. “That is a currency far more priceless than gold.” Caistlin grinned, showing crooked and broken teeth, his lower jaw bent inwards. Was he trying to unnerve Atilan? Scars were not something to be ashamed of, though Atilan suspected this was not a man sympathy would much move. “But, I reject this city as yours. The people here do not receive your help.”

  Atilan’s lip twitched. He leaned forward. “I would like to say I understand your game, but I am afraid to admit, I think it is going over my head. Can I suggest we be honest with one another?” Atilan asked. This was no normal meeting, and Atilan was already disadvantaged. Luckily, he saw his response seemed to have rattled this man, the brief blink of his eyes were all the tell Atilan needed. Caistlin–if that was even his real name–was a master at deception. Atilan was better though, at least reading it.

  “Perhaps we may have some,” Caistlin wheezed. He spun the chair around and sat in it, leaning towards Atilan.

  “Excellent. The letter, why?” Atilan asked.

  Caistlin coughed. Whether real, or fake, Atilan was unsure, but the man used the fit to procure a small journal from the folds of his coat. It was old, decades old at least, a small thing. The leather was frayed, and Atilan could see the papers worn, closed with a metal clasp that looked rusted. Caistlin held it up and shifted it back and forth in his hands, as if to keep Atilan’s eyes moving on it. “I think you would have interest in this.”

  “Whose is it?” Atilan asked.

  The edge of Caistlin’s mouth quirked into a grim little smile. “Hadian Cicero’s.”

  Ah, the other victim of Atilan’s he still worked to repent. Curious twist of fate that. Hadian had been a Sophomancer banished from House Cicero for telling Black Omens. He had eventually fled to Ghost and tried to start life anew there, working to redeem past actions. That hadn’t stopped Atilan from killing him as he had so many others.

  “I recovered his notes already, that will do me—”

  “Not this one.”

  Atilan raised an eyebrow, annoyed at the interruption. He swallowed anger, he did the same thing to people. “Then where did it come from? The Inquisition was quite thorough in its investigation of Hadian’s home and contacts.”

  Caistlin shrugged. “You don’t need to know. I have my ways. All you need to know are its contents, and by reading them, it will be proven the real thing.” Caistlin leaned even closer, where Atilan could smell his breath–it was oddly much cleaner than he would have expected–and grinned like he was a conspirator about to share a secret. “A King to die, a Queen to come. The blade and gold will bring you fright, to God’s baptism you’ll succumb.”

  Atilan looked up sharply and took a step towards the man. Those were the words of a Black Omen told in Hadian’s journal Atilan had acquired after the Baptism of Blood. It had only ever been shown to high ranking members of the clergy. Atilan suspected it prophesized the prior Dragon Hyrth’s death, the rise of Arrietty, and Hadian’s own demise. But, if Caistlin knew it, then that meant his journal likely was the real thing.”

  And by the look on the man’s face, Caistlin seemed to be reading Atilan’s thoughts. Ever more and more conspiracies and plots unravel around me. Will it ever end? “So what now then, mercenary? Are you merely toying with me, or do you intend to give me the journal?” Did Atilan even want it? There was too much to do already, and this would only mean more work. He supposed that was his burden to bear though, especially tied to Hadian.

  Caistlin’s hand twitched, and the journal was hid in the folds of his cloak. “I want to make one thing clear Atilan, this is no gift I am giving you. It is purely a selfish thing I am doing, and I hope it will bring you ruin in the end,” what comforting words, “however, it might well bring you answers.” Caistlin pulled the book out again and tentatively held it out to Atilan. Fighting down a sigh of both exhaustion and annoyance at himself, Atilan took the cursed thing. Despite how light it felt, Atilan knew it to be heavy. A deep spiritual weight nearly bowled him over. He pocketed it, as Caistlin withdrew from Atilan, waving a hand as if it had been burned.

  “Why do you hate me?” Atilan asked.

  Caistlin looked at him sharply. “I do not—”

  “Lie to me if you wish.” Atilan narrowed his eyes. “I killed someone dear to you, did I not?”

  “This meeting is over,” Caistlin grumbled, turning.

  Atilan reached out to grab the man’s hand. Caistlin moved like lightning, hand darting away from Atilan’s grasp, and a sword was drawn from the cane Caistlin used to prop himself up with. The blade was sleek and very sharp looking and very much pointed right at Atilan’s throat. The speed was beyond impressive.

  “Do not touch me filth,” Caistlin growled. “I have given you a boon, do not push your luck with me.”

  Atilan stared hard at him, careful not to breathe too deeply, lest the tip of the sword draw the life-blood of his neck. “Very well.” Atilan took a very careful step back, and Caistlin did the same. The man sheathed his sword, disappearing back into a simple walking cane he used to struggle forward again. It looked too real to be a mere act. Moving that quickly must cost him a great deal of pain. Caistlin dropped his gaze from Atilan till he reached the corner. As he did, Atilan called out, “Forgive me one last curiosity. Your identity, did you choose the name Caistlin with purpose?”

  There was a very audible sigh, as the man turned to face Atilan again. “You know your history Vessel.”

  Atilan nodded. “I am sorry for whomever I killed. I cannot bring them back, and I will not deny wrong doing. I hope you can find peace one day.”

  Without turning his head as Caistlin now walked away, he replied, “There is no such thing as peace vessel.” And Caistlin was gone. Another enigma to puzzle. The Caistlin of yore was a mythical figure, from before the establishment of the united Artaghan Empire. He was said to have nearly unified the continent long before Dragon Edouard Lusamyre accomplished the feat. He was betrayed by his best friend, right at the height of his power, and killed. His death was said to have ended in a century of war. More and more puzzles to untangle. The book felt heavy in Atilan’s pocket. The Red Wraith, conspiracy in the Church, a blasphemer werewolf, a protest, Hadian’s journal, Jehan, Judge, it all kept building more and more. Atilan sighed. He could not fathom when next he could sleep. He shook his head. If he couldn’t sleep, might as well keep seeking answers. It was time to go speak with the wraiths and the werewolf.”