The Neeft’s location near the apex of the ocean cliffs of the eastern shore, gave it a commanding view of the surrounding region with the fogs abated, even from the lower levels of the structure. Without the immediate threat of the cultists (and the loss of sight from the fog), the woods that occupied the shoreline to the north of the Tower, and flanked Kellen’s Veld, were, in a word, tranquil.

Cadryn had seen woods before, but they were the cultivated hunting grounds of the Imperial leaders: Merchant Guilds, the Alchemist’s Collect, Army commanders, and the Assemblage . . . available only to members of such, with the occasional visit permitted to the top students of the Academy. All of them however, lacked the untamed virility of these woods, the sheer density of life. After a half hour, he’d forgotten the head of poor Fistus, after another, the Troll.

Given this, their sudden arrival at the latter’s cave was something of a shock. Bones littered the scree of flooded rocks outside the entrance, and carrion creatures of every kind feasted on the bits of rotting flesh that remained. The wind changed, and the fetid stench of the place washed over them.

“This is definitely the place,” Sil said, her hand moving to rest on the haft of the wrought-iron cudgel at her waist.

“Allow me,” Nine said, and knocked an arrow with a cloth bound head. Looking around at the branches’ swaying, he seemed satisfied, and loosed it carelessly into the cave mouth.

There was a flash, and orange smoke billowed outward, moments later an inhuman howl filled the air and a more humanoid monstrosity trashed into view.

Grass-Stain’s skin was the color of fresh greenery, and stretched too tightly over grotesquely elongated limbs, the hands and feet of which ended in massive gore-stained claws. The troll advanced, slashing at the ground and stone, sending sparks and tearing the air with crack of splintering stone.

Grass-Stain stopped as it cleared the smoke and crouched low, bile leaking from a maw of rotting teeth. Its milk colored eyes snapped from person to person. “I, did not, kill him!” it howled, in the voice of a child.

Cadryn’s shuddered as the thing looked through him.

“We know,” Nine, said, and when the troll’s attention fell upon the slight figure, the creature began to shake uncontrollably.

“I explained!” it wailed. “I did not want to offend,” Grass-Stain said, lowering its head.

“So we saw,” Cadryn said, and did his best to ignore Nine’s glare. “Who did kill him?”

“Not me,” the troll re-entreated, “Not us,” it added, plaintively.

“What did you see,” Sil asked.

“Fire,” the troll spat, as if the word itself, pained it. “In the night, through the trees.”

“Where,” Nine asked, and Cadryn could hear something that might be compassion.

“The cabin, his cabin.” It said, pointing to the west. “Beg pardon, I only took the head to prove. No offense.”

“None taken,” Nine replied, “Go, in peace.”

Bobbing its head, Grass-Stain turned, retreating into the clearing smoke of the cave.

Cadryn watched it go, then stared at Nine. The Gamekeeper turned to leave, and, as he moved, his unkempt, shoulder-length, hair spun, and in the light of the sun, Cadryn saw the ear beneath; oddly shaped, and cut off at the back. He felt a hand at his elbow.

“Don’t ask,” Sil said, her voice serious.

“But he’s—“

“She, but it’s like they say about beauty . . .”

It’s in the eye of the beholder, Cadryn thought, or, in this case, the nature of the beings of the Fae Realm, lie with the perceiver’s desires. Nine was a creature not of their world, living under the guise of lowly Tower Guard. No wonder the troll, an escaped prisoner of that realm, would be terrified of him.

What have I been sent into? Cadryn thought.

The path back from the troll’s cave led almost directly for Kellen’s Veld, then took a sharp detour up a steep outcropping. At the top of which, in the shade of a vast old growth tree, they found Fistus and his cabin, or what was left of them anyway.

The headless corpse lay near the doorway of the burned out shell of the cabin. As if the dying man had tried to crawl away from the flames as they consumed his home. Sil let out a slow sigh. “Even if we hadn’t talked to Grass-Stain, its innocence would have been obvious: no troll would waste good meat by cooking it.”

“Yes,” Nine said, annoyance edging into his voice, “that detour, was not for that purpose.” Cadryn felt those eyes upon his skin, piercing, prying, “rather to illuminate our newest member to certain possibilities.”

“Such as?” Cadryn asked, his anger rising.

“What role do you play in our little clan?” Nine asked, and, apparently having fulfilled his task for the day, promptly left them, walking back down the rise.

“Well that was, cryptic,” Cadryn whispered, unsure of what constituted earshot in this case.

“You get used to it,” Gita said, emboldened by Nine’s departure.

“Hey, bushy tail,” Sil said, lifting her chin at the tree, “Check that out, will ya?”

Gita let out a small hiss, but complied, winging upward into the trunk-sized branches of the massive tree’s lower boughs. With her departure, the only sound became the wind up the back of the rise, and the ocean of leaves above, the fresh air blowing away the smell of burnt flesh and smoldering embers.

Looking at the scene, Cadryn shook his head.

“What is it?” Sil asked,

“Serene Destruction,” he answered, and saw her smile out of the corner of his eye. “It could be the name of one of your faithful.”

“It is,” she said, inclining her head at him, “if you ever choose to join the Assemblage.”

“SO that’s how you get your names?”

“Just so,” she said, and the two stood for a time in silence, waiting for return of Gita. After a few minutes, the Batsel returned, diving through the dappled light of the canopy, a tiny book clutched in her hind-claws.

“What’d ya find?” Sil asked, holding out a hand.

Releasing the book, Gita swooped to land across Cadryn’s shoulders.

He leaned forward to make it easier, surprised at how quickly he’d gotten used to this happening. “Well, Gita?” he asked.

“It’s a journal, of sorts, found it in a spy nest up in the upper branches. Looks like old drunk Fistus may have been more than he let on.”

“I’ll say,” Sil said, handing the book over.

Cadryn began to read:

“Subject traveled today, just to the Apothecary, possible illness. . . Subject didn’t leave the tavern today . . . I should send word back to the others. . . “

He handed it back. “He might just have been crazy,” Cadryn said.

“Might’ve been,” Sil said, tapping the booklet to her chin, “I’ll have Bahsa read it, maybe more too it.”

“The Quarter-mistress?” Cadryn asked.

“After Nine . . . you still think everyone here is only who they seem to be? For someone who believes Gita’s tale, you sure do limit yourself when it comes to the less glaringly exotic.”

“Silence, Silence,” Gita piped, “Lest he start to question your sage advise.”

But that was exactly the thought going through Cadryn’s head on the long walk back to the Neeft. He began to consider his request to return to capital less of a rescue from boredom, and more of an actual rescue. . .