Sword of the MacLachlan - 2. Return To Fortmain

As soon as the pre-dawn light permitted, the boys continued down the road they believed led to Fortmain. The sun was not yet completely over the horizon when they encountered an old, but hale man, dressed in a non-descript robe. He wore sandals, and carried a staff that was too long and thin to be a quarterstaff, but which nevertheless appeared sturdy. His hair was gray, and he was covered with the dust of the road.

As they approached, he extended a hand. “Can you spare a bite of food for a pilgrim? Or, perhaps a penny with which he might buy his supper?”

James offered the man food: bread and cheese, and pemmican. The old man thanked them and raised his hand in blessing, “May the Light rest upon you.” At that, a surge of strength and well-being flowed through the boys. When they recovered from their amazement, the old man was a small figure in the distance.

Turning once again in the direction of Fortmain, they saw three horsemen riding at a gallop toward them. Behind them, on leads, were two other horses without riders. Kenneth was the first to recognize Alan’s tall form, ash-blond hair, and customary forest green vest. Alan rode a huge brown horse with light mane, tail, and bushy stockings. Behind him, the elven tween Patrick’s unruly red hair blew in the wind. Patrick was on a golden palomino, an elven horse. Bringing up the rear, and holding the leads of James and Kenneth’s horses, was the human boy Thom, riding a horse nearly as big as Alan’s, but without the dramatic coloring and hair.

Patrick spurred Windchaser into the lead, jumping off as he reached James and Kenneth. He embraced first one, then the other. Thom arrived next, and had the sense to stake his and the others’ horses’ reins to the ground before running to greet his friends—the boys who, with Patrick and Alan, had helped restored his legacy, an enchanted quarterstaff.

Alan’s horse brought up the rear. After he dismounted, the human tween clasped James’ arm, and then pulled the tween to him in an embrace sealed with a kiss. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

“And you, too, Kenneth. Come here…” Alan grabbed the boy and squeezed him tightly. “We were worried about you. Patrick said some bad things were happening…” The sentence was cut off as Kenneth stood on his toes to kiss his friend.

Patrick explained that he had detected the storm in which James and Kenneth had earlier been wandering, and had been trying to locate them using scrying spells. “There were several loci of Darkness that hid you; a week or so ago, I was blinded by Light, then Darkness, then Light; I could only determine a general location, so we decided to see if getting closer to you would help. A powerful flash of magic, bright and clean, just after dawn this morning helped me pinpoint your location. It completely blew away the Darkness that was hiding you.”

“The old man!” Kenneth said.

In response to Patrick’s puzzled look, James described the old man they had met on the road about dawn, and the power of the blessing he bestowed on them.

“And the light before that?” Patrick asked.

James described the hut of Marcus Chamberlain. “There were only two times since we left Fortmain that we felt truly safe…we were attacked by common robbers. One had Innate Magic, and had used it when he made his arrow heads…penetrated my chain shirt. Left us for dead. Might have died if Kenneth hadn’t kept his head. Farm family found us, and put us up while we healed. Found the robbers. Killed the one who’d made the arrows and shot us.”

Alan began rubbing his hands over his horse’s legs, ruffling the hair stockings at the ankles. “We’ve ridden these horses hard since before daybreak. Dasher would like a rest.”

Kenneth greeted his horse, Honey, with delight, and hooked his pack onto the back of the saddle.

Thom’s horse was not quite as large as Alan’s, but had to carry only Thom’s lighter weight. “Nimrod would like some water,” he said. He quickly removed the saddle and bridle from the black stallion, and led the horse off the road to a nearby lake. As the horse drank, Thom stripped off his clothes and dove into the water. The horse looked up in obvious annoyance as the boy splashed water in his face. Thom got no more than 15 feet into the lake when the water erupted with a snake-like liquid form. Thom disappeared from sight.

Believing this to be a magical attack, James dropped his gear and cast a spell to disrupt magic; the spell had no effect. Alan rushed out into the water and attacked the creature with his sword, also to no effect. Patrick cast an apprentice-level spell to purify water, and the creature collapsed. Thom bobbed to the surface, unhurt.

“Whoa! What a ride that was,” the boy sputtered as he climbed out of the lake. “How come it attacked me, but not Nimrod?”

“Because you invaded its territory,” Patrick answered. “Nimrod was never more than a few feet from the bank.”

“Sure, I understand,” Kenneth interrupted, “But why did your purification spell kill it, and James didn’t affect it with a disruption spell?”

“Oh, I didn’t kill it,” Patrick replied. “The purification spell would have been like…like a bad smell to it, I suppose. I only chased it off. It was a water elemental, and its magical component was strongly bound.” He turned to James and said in a low voice, pitched for the tween’s ears, alone. “Too strongly bound for the amount of energy you put into your spell. I’m not sure I could have destroyed it, even if we’d had more time. If it comes back, perhaps the two of us…?” He arched his golden eyebrows above his green eyes.

James nodded. He liked Patrick. The tall, slender elf was a good mage, a good teacher, and a good friend.

“Where are we, anyway? I mean, how far is it to Fortmain?” Kenneth asked as the boys sat under an oak tree for lunch.

“Not more than three days ride, albeit three hard days,” Alan answered. “Perhaps we should plan on four days. There’s that farmstead we passed this morning. We should be able to reach it easily before nightfall. And the village in the river bend we rushed past; there was an inn…I remember the sign. That’s a second day. The Prester Holt is about another day, and is an easy day from Fortmain.” He looked at Patrick for confirmation.

Although Patrick was the acknowledged and sworn leader of the group, he glanced at James, who nodded, and then the two boys, before announcing his agreement with Alan’s plan.

*****

The city of Fortmain was situated on the north eastern shore of Shadow Lake, where the Arum River flowed from the lake toward the north. The group approached the city from the western side of the river.

Coming toward them from the opposite shore was a flat barge propelled by men pulling on a rope that stretched across the water between sturdy pilings on both shores. The rope was slack enough that most of its length was below the water.

Patrick asked, “How full are your purses? They’re asking six-pence apiece to ferry us across, unless you want to go swimming, again.” The last comment was made with a smiling look at Thom, who blushed and grinned.

As the group got closer to Fortmain, they encountered an armed city patrol: men on horseback. The men were wearing mail armor under brown tabards. The tabards and the flag one of the men carried bore the pine tree that was the symbol of the city. One of the men recognized Alan—or perhaps the giant horse, Dasher—, and the party was allowed to pass. Patrick explained that these patrols usually manage to keep the riff-raff away from the immediate environs of the city, although Fortmain had been attacked twice since James and Kenneth had left. “And,” he concluded, “I’m not sure that the city guard is any better than the brigands.”

Before they reached the gate, Alan explained, “Mounted horsemen are no longer allowed in the city, except for the guard, we’ll have to walk our horses from this point. Keep a sharp eye on your purses and saddlebags!”

After identifying themselves to the guards and a low-grade mage at the gate, the party was allowed to enter the city. Alan took the lead, pushing his way through the crowded, bustling streets.

Patrick was the target of a cutpurse who was able to reach into his pocket and grab a small bag containing perhaps 20 pennies. Patrick grabbed the cutpurse’s wrist. The would-be thief, a scrawny boy, dropped the purse and wriggled out of Patrick’s grip. He dashed away, scraping a blunt dagger on the flank of Patrick’s horse as he did so. The horse reared. Patrick controlled the horse, but the crowd became angry. They began shouting, muttering, and pressing against the group.

Alan reached into his purse and tossed a handful of copper farthings high into the air and back toward the city gate. The coins caught the setting sun and glowed brightly. The crowd broke for the coins, thinking them to be gold. The party hurried away before the ruse could be discovered.

“While you were gone, Thom’s father closed the Wooden Troll, and moved out of town to live with his brother’s family on a farm. We’ve moved into a somewhat cleaner place,” Alan explained as he turned down an unfamiliar street.

The party reached the inn, whose sign suggested that it was called the Boar and Castle. Thom, as was his custom, accompanied the stable boy to bed down the horses. Patrick led the party inside, bypassing the common room and going directly up the stairs to a door at the end of the hall. “Your things will be safe, here,” he said. “Hold your hands on the latch…like that. Listen carefully as I open the door. Ignatio. It’s now keyed to you.” The lock clicked and the door swung open to reveal a comfortable room.

*****

Since being reunited with his former Master, the Healer William of Dunbar, Patrick had begun to write to him. These letters, sent as they were outside the spy network of which Patrick and his companions were a part, contained gossip and news, as well as speculations that Master Dunbar would consider and temper before passing on to others. While James and Kenneth enjoyed the first bath they’d had in over a week, Patrick composed one of those letters.

The power of the Light seems dimmed in this city, as if a miasma of Evil had fallen over the place. There is a large temple of the Light, but it is seldom visited. There are no temples overtly dedicated to the Dark, but I suspect that rituals are conducted privately. We know the senior Cleric here, a man named Caulden. He has become alarmed, and privately has told us that he may have to abandon the temple and the city. The College of Magic is nearly vacant. Only a handful of students and three or four Masters remain. Their library is intact, however, and I’ve had a grand time exploring it.

The people of Fortmain are a mean lot. Although the city is on the Royal Road, they are by preference isolated from the mainstream. They’ve become somewhat inbred, and are suspicious of strangers. We are not presently in danger, mostly because we keep a low profile. Should they become stirred up, we might become a target. I sleep with one eye open.

*****

After supper, the boys returned to their room. Although he was tired, Kenneth wanted to clean the sword he recovered from the barrow. What appeared to have been rust was merely a patina that was easily removed with a bit of grit and cloth. As he wiped the black skim from the sword, Kenneth’s face lit up. “There’s writing here…runes!”

He handed the sword to James, who looks at the runes and frowns. “They’re runes of some sort, all right, but I don’t recognize them. Patrick” James turned to the elf. “Have you ever seen anything like this?”

Patrick averted his gaze. “Before I look at them…where did you get the sword?”

“From a ghost!” Kenneth blurted, “From his grave.”

Alan and Thom sat up from the bed.

“What’s that?” Thom asked. “A ghost?”

Patrick interrupted, “Perhaps we’d better hear the whole story. Meanwhile, Kenneth if you would, please, wrap the sword in cloth so that the runes are covered.”

The boys gathered in a circle of sorts on the floor of the room. Thom sat in Alan’s lap; Kenneth sat by Patrick, who put his arm around the boy, while James told the story of the Barrow Ghost.

“…and then, he disappeared. He never harrowed us; at least, we were never afraid. We filled in the hole, although there was probably no reason to do so. His former body would long ago have turned to dust.”

Alan felt Thom shiver with the thrill of the story. “Weren’t you afraid?” the boy asked.

“At first,” Kenneth admitted, “But he was so surely of the Light that there was nothing to fear. And…he smiled at us. He was a lord or a king, too, I think. Here…here’s the device that was on his breast and scabbard.” Kenneth took out the plate he’d retrieved, and showed them the emblem, “Sable, a harp argent,” the boy said, showing off his knowledge of heraldry. “That means a silver harp on a black field. See?”

“Well,” said Patrick, looking not at Kenneth but at James, “if you and James are satisfied that this ghost wasn’t evil, it should be safe for me to look at the runes.”

James blushed unseen in the general darkness of the room. He should have told Patrick about the ghost and the sword. And Patrick should have chastened him for not doing so. But Patrick was a good teacher and a good friend, and he would not embarrass James in front of Alan or the boys. Just as he had not embarrassed James when James used the wrong spell against the water elemental.

James nodded at Patrick, silently promising himself to thank the elf at the first opportunity. “I’m sure,” James said.

Patrick picked up the sword. “Kenneth, could we have some more light, please?” He asked.

After the boy lit another taper and brought it close, Patrick removed the cloth and gazed at the sword. He frowned, flipped the sword end-to-end, and read the runes the other way. “This makes more sense,” he said. “It’s old elvish, and written by an elf. No one else ever gets the curliqueues in the corners quite right. Here’s what they say, A Defender of the MacLachlans and of the Highlands, I will Cleve to them, and Destroy their Enemies, the Great Trolls, While Healing them of All Ills.”

He looked up. “That’s pretty potent, if it has any potency left, at all.”

Patrick continued, “Some interpretation is in order. As a Defender, the sword, according to magical usage of the time, was capable of gathering magic, much as does Thom’s quarterstaff. When used against Trolls, the magic adds to the strength of the wielder. Under the right circumstances, a true blow by this sword might have caused a Troll to utterly disintegrate”

“Ugh,” shivered Kenneth.

“That would be really yucky!” Thom giggled.

Patrick smiled at the boys’ comic relief, and continued. “The sword, then, may have been not unlike Thom’s quarterstaff. Trolls must have been quite a problem in the old days.

“The power of healing is a bit more restrictive. The sword was created using the power of Light, at least according to the runes, which agrees with what James and Kenneth saw. Its healing was more likely to have been felt by someone of that same persuasion, or someone engaged in a quest for the Light. Usually, the healing power of devices such as this was collected and stored slowly; it was not a miracle cure.

“I suspect, as well, that the number of times that the sword could exercise its power against a Troll, and the number of times that it could heal is limited, albeit a large number. There is no way of knowing what that number is, or how often it may have been used in the past.

“Do you remember that we found a strand of frozen magic in Thom’s quarterstaff? That’s what made it possible for that weapon to continue to function thousands of years after it was made. Kenneth…you’ve the best sight, can you see any sign of anything like that, here?”

Kenneth focused, then shook his head, sadly, “No…I’m afraid not…” James hugged Kenneth to comfort him.

Patrick continued, “Well, it may be some other magical mechanism. Anyway, the sword was apparently made for the MacLachlans. It likely had a spell to help it return to them, should it be lost…or buried. In fact, it may have been that spell that caused the ghost to communicate with you. Think of it…someone dead perhaps for centuries, bound to a place until he should find the right person to take the sword!”

Patrick concluded his description of the sword with a warning. “Should someone try to use the sword against a MacLachlan, the sword would likely turn against them.”

Kenneth looked distraught. “If it was made for the MacLachlans, does that mean I have to give it back? The ghost said I was to keep it. Well, he didn’t actually say that, but that’s what he meant!”

“I don’t think so. Have you ever heard of MacLachlans, or seen that device…the silver harp? I haven’t,” replied Patrick. “I’d like to do a little research in the library, though. Perhaps we could find the history of that family.”

The next morning, Patrick and Kenneth visited the Library at the local College of Magic, where Patrick was a familiar visitor. The ancient mage who served as librarian was glad for their company. When told the nature of their quest, he led them to a section of the library containing heraldic records. “If there is anything about the name, it will be here. They’re not indexed, but…yes, this one has color plates of the arms, and some references to dates awarded. That will help locate it in the minutes of the College of Heraldry, over here.”

Patrick thanked the old man, and the boys began their search through the musty books. The task was made more difficult by the frequent distraction of finding the arms of a house with which they were familiar, and by Kenneth’s fascination with heraldry in general.

“Here, look, it’s the Arms of the City of Fortmain….And what’s this? An oak tree with a crown…that’s King Oberon…Here’s a wild boar…who wears a wild boar? Richard of Glouster; there was a Richard of Glouster in Carter, once. I wonder if it’s the same one.” The morning and early afternoon passed among the books until they found what they were looking for.

The companions were not surprised when Durber joined them for dinner. They were, however, surprised at the message he brought.

“I’m closing the business and leaving Fortmain,” he said, when he was assured of privacy. “I’m taking a last convoy to the north on the second day after Midwinter. If you have letters, best get them to me the day before. Our friend in Arcadia urges you to consider leaving, as well, or at least exercising great caution.” Durber repeated what the companions were discovering daily: Fortmain was becoming a focus of Darkness. They had never been truly welcomed, except perhaps by the Stoltz family, and they were likely to become even more unwelcome in the coming days.

The letter Durber left with Patrick was even more to the point. Patrick frowned as he read it, and then offered it to Alan and James. Both boys shook their heads. “What does it say?” Alan asked.

“Our friend in Arcadia asks us to help close up Durber’s business, and encourages us to leave Fortmain. He asks us to keep in touch with him, but says he has no specific mission in mind. He reminds us that we still may operate under the authority of the prince.”

*****

The day was cold, and that evening, after dinner, the boys gathered around the fireplace in their room while Patrick and Kenneth prepared to tell of the Sword of the MacLachlans.

Patrick began, “The MacLachlans were both dukes and barons of the highland marches, holding vast estates in the rugged mountains in northwestern Arcadia. Their patent of nobility was apparently granted before the College of Heralds was formed in Arcadia. All the records we found suggest strongly that the MacLachlan line has died out. The College of Heralds minutes of 2,500 years ago say that their patent is vacant. There was one obscure reference to a younger son who disappeared some 3,000 years ago, but no one has ever claimed the title. It seems that there is little danger that anyone will appear to claim the sword from Kenneth.”

Kenneth, who was sitting in front of James, continued the story, “Their coat of arms was the silver harp on a black shield. It’s there in the book. I think the ghost was the last of the MacLachlans, and wanted someone to have the sword. I don’t know why he picked me, though. Maybe just because I was there…”

James hugged the boy to himself. “You were more than a target of opportunity. Yes, the ghost may have been wandering around for centuries, trying to lure someone to the burial barrow. But there were two of us, and we’re both servants of the Light. He saw us both, and he picked you. There’s something special about you…and he saw it.”

Patrick continued the story. “We did find out for whom the sword was made. It seems that Erin MacLachlan was to be joined with Elsbeth of Midean. Theirs was a betrothal of both love and politics. Politics, because their fathers, neighboring barons, sought to cement a strong union of their houses, and had pledged the two to one another as children. And, when Erin changed from tween to man, he found love in Elsbeth. Now, during his boyhood, Erin had become the sworn brother of Elsbeth’s brother, Ian. They were inseparable as tweens. Ian, however, choose to remain a tween. When Erin became man, Ian ran away from home, and was never seen again.

“For several years, Elsbeth’s mother, an elven lady of some great magical talents, supervised the construction of a Great Sword. To be sure, it was a Long Sword, and not the more traditional Claymore; but its greatness was to lie in its magic, not its size. mithral from the elven lands was imported, and melded through great magics with the native ores of the Highlands. As the blade was forged, and repeatedly tempered (in Troll blood—gathered at great effort but with considerable delight by Ian and Erin), the elven lady lent her magic, singing spells into the very metal of the sword, itself.

“The sword was to have been for Ian, but when he ran away, and when Erin was wed to Elspeth, the sword was gifted to him, and the runes we see today were engraved on it.”

“Wow,” interjected Alan. “How much of that story is true?”

“Well,” Patrick said after a moment, “We found definite references to the MacLachlans as Baron of the Highland Marches. We—rather Kenneth—found their coat of arms and the history of their Patent of Nobility. The runes are quite clear; I’m sure I read them accurately. The story, however, was in a book of legends and love stories. It probably had some basis in truth, but we can’t be sure.”

“It’s a good story, though,” Thom said.

“Yes, it’s a good story,” Alan agreed as he stroked the boy’s hair.

*****

James pondered what he would write to Alten, and how he might phrase his letter so that it would be meaningful to Alten, but innocent—or, at least, not too revealing—to anyone who might intercept it. At last, he began:

To my Friend Arne, in care of Correll the Cobbler, Market Square, Arcadia.

If ever I needed to be reminded that Light comes in many hues and in many degrees of brightness, I have received that reminder. My companion, Kenneth, and I recently were employed to escort a cleric from Fortmain to the mountain village of Glebe. Because of the terrain, we could not ride, and so walked the entire six-day journey. The cleric is a very pious man, full of Light. Although he grumbled good-naturedly at the discomfort of the journey, he was quite cheerful toward us and seemed happy to have us as companions.

He’s going to have to become accustomed to discomfort. Glebe is very remote and high in the mountains. Although we learned that a “glebe” was the name once given to a temple farm, it seems to be an ironic name for the village. There are small farms and garden plots tucked away in every crack and crevice of the hills, but they do not produce the abundance that a glebe conjures in the mind. They grow enough wheat for bread to be plentiful, but the only vegetables we saw were turnips and onions. It’s too bad that they don’t know how to make zwiebelkuchen! The only domestic animals we saw were goats. The people do make wonderful cheeses from the goats’ milk.

The senior at the Glebe temple was not happy to see the new cleric. Apparently the temple’s resources are strained to support the existing staff (the senior, another older cleric, and two acolytes), and he was not happy to have another mouth to feed. He was most inhospitable to us, but did direct us to an inn. I’d planned to stay only two days to rest after our trip, but we enjoyed the cheeses so much, and had so much fun that we stayed for four.

One of the innkeeper’s sons confided to me that he wanted to become a paladin. We talked at length, and I believe both that he is sincere in his desire and conscious of the demands his ambition will place on him. On his behalf, I asked senior Caulden of the temple at Fortmain if he would accept the boy, Quinn, as a student and Probationer. Caulden, who has become a good friend to us, has agreed and will send a message to Glebe inviting the boy to travel to Fortmain to join the temple here.

Our trip back to Fortmain was not enjoyable. We encountered a storm and heavy fog after we descended from the mountains, and I managed to get off the road to Fortmain and onto a farm road that led us easterly, but north of the main road. We were attacked by robbers and injured. We were succored by a farm family with whom we stayed for more than a week while healing. The Light shines brightly in that place, although none we met displayed any particular talents beyond one grandmother who had some folk magic.

Kenneth learned a spell from the grandmother. She was using a heuristic, something developed by trial and error by generations of her ancestors, to remove warts. The spell focuses enough magic to kill a virus or bacterium in a small area. Patrick, as a student of the theory of magic was fascinated. From a healer’s perspective, it’s more trouble and less effective than other instrumentalities.

After leaving the farm, we traced the men who robbed us, and retrieved some of our possessions…including a very special dagger. (I should mention that two of the boys at the farm gave us daggers before we left; it was very touching.) I found it appropriate to give one of the robbers an opportunity to search for the Light in another life.

We had another encounter of note: a rather bright man had established his home in the middle of a lake at a nexus of magical force. He and his apprentice, a child, were kind enough to entertain us one evening.

Our companions from Fortmain had been searching for us, and we encountered them one morning about four days north of Fortmain, to which we returned safely.

The Light in Fortmain dims by the hour. Many of our good friends are leaving or are preparing to leave. We have been urged to leave, as well.

Toward the end of our journey, Kenneth, with the help of a ghost, found an ancient sword. Patrick says it had some remarkable properties in its early days, although there is no evidence of them, now. When we leave Fortmain, we will pursue its history. Our first destination will be my hometown, Bowling Green. Please write me in care of my father who is the constable there.

My warmest thoughts and kindest hope that Light will be with you.

*****

Two months passed since Durber had left Fortmain. There was little for the companions to do but observe and report. Twice they’d ridden to the Stoltz farm. Patrick and Alan had agreed with Durber that they would keep his warehouse open, and were engaged in shipping what they could on to Arcadia. There was little else to do, and the boys were getting restless.

“James!” a familiar voice called from the doorway of the Boar and Castle. “James!”

James looked up to see Caulden, Mark, and another figure. “Quinn!” he replied. “You did come, after all.”

When all were seated around a table, and mugs of tea and ale had been served, Caulden came to the point.

“James, I’ve got to abandon the temple, here.” He paused to let that news sink into James’ mind.

James nodded. “I’m sorry for the temple, but happy for you. This is no place for a cleric of the Light, anymore. Kenneth and I have hidden our tabards, and are very, very cautious about offering healing or blessings. But what about Quinn? Where will you go?”

“I will go with Caulden and Mark,” Quinn answered. “And, we’re going to Glebe!”

In response to James’ puzzled look, Caulden explained. “The senior there has been recalled to Arcadia rather abruptly. Apparently Senior Alten found fault with his performance.”

James’ mind raced. My letter to Alten? I never meant it…or did I?

“I had notified the mother temple of the likelihood that I’d have to abandon Fortmain, and received instructions just this morning to travel to Glebe and assume responsibility for the temple, there. Mark and I, with Quinn, will depart later today. Quinn will be able to take his probationer’s oath in front of his family.”

“James,” Quinn added, his eyes shining, “thank you for what you’ve done for me. Even though I’ll have been in Fortmain for less than a full day, I’ve had an opportunity I’d not had before…an opportunity to see Evil. This is not a good place, and I fear for you.”

James put his hand over Quinn’s. “Thank you, my friend. However, I travel with stout companions and we are keeping a sharp eye on the situation here. There are, however, things we must do before we can leave.” Like those documents Durber left in our charge. We’ve been sending them out a few at a time.

*****

“Master Stoltz,” Patrick said as the member of that family who lived in Fortmain entered the Boar and Castle. “How goes your day?”

The man walked over to the table where Patrick and James sat, waving away the serving boy. “Not well,” he said, quietly. “Here, this letter is from Benjamin for you. It will be the last I’ll be able to deliver. I sent my family to the farm a tenday ago. I leave from here, with my apprentice, not to return to Fortmain until things are more settled.”

“Thank you for the letter. When might things be more settled?” Patrick asked.

“You can see it as well as I can,” the man said. “This town has become a pest-hole. It’s no longer safe for followers of the Light. You know that the temple’s been abandoned, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Patrick answered. “We were acquainted with the senior and his acolyte. We have, however, received word that they are safe.”

“I thank you for saying that, and I’ll not ask where they are. Caulden and I were childhood friends. I was glad when he was posted here, and sorry to see him leave. If you see him? No? If you write to him, please give him my regards.”

“Of course, Master Stoltz. Would you,” Patrick paused as he wrote on a piece of foolscap, “please give this to Benjamin? It’s an address to which he can write private letters to me. I don’t know when I’ll next be in Arcadia, but any letters that reach here will be held for me. It’s the home of my former teacher.”

After the man had left, Patrick opened Benjamin’s letter.

My dear friend Patrick,

We all hope that you and your companions are well. Know that our thoughts are with you. We are still safe here at the farm. My uncle in Fortmain has sent his family to live here. His apprentice, who you met when you delivered the horses, will arrive soon. He will be in troth to my sister. They will live in one of the cottages west of the farm, and begin raising goats in the pasture you and Alan and Thom crossed the first day you came here. There are acres and acres of fallow fields to the west. When we went to explore pasturage for the goats, Tommy and I found the ruins of old, stone hedgerows more than six miles west. It’s almost as if the farm were once many times larger than it is, now. That might explain why the houses are so large that most of the rooms are unused. Do you suppose, in the days of The Messenger Boypeople from Fortmain escaped to the farm, much as my uncle and his family are now doing?

Mother’s pregnant again, and she says she will have a second daughter. That’s unheard of, or almost unheard of. Recently we received letters from two of our relatives that they, too, are expecting second daughters. We are all happy, of course.

Patrick made a few notes in his journal, and then disintegrated the letter. Benjamin’s bright, he mused. And his notion about the size of the farm and about refugees deserved some consideration beyond mine. And the size of the houses and farms. I’d not thought of it, but so many Alan and I passed or visited on the way here from Arcadia, and so many on the trip to Agium, were much larger than necessary to house or support the people who lived there. Hmmm.

Alan posted a letter to his father in one of the last shipments to leave Durber’s warehouse.

Dear Father,

We found our companions, and made a safe journey back to Fortmain. The city is darker than ever. Today is winter solstice, and should be a celebration, but the city seems to continue its business without even acknowledging the return of Light. James and Kenneth conducted a brief, private ceremony for us in our rooms, and we all feel much better for having received their blessing.

Kenneth has found a sword that once belonged to a member of one of the Highland clans. He and Patrick told us the story of how it was made; we don’t know how it was lost, but the clan no longer exists, so Kenneth will keep the sword. It once was a magical sword, but Patrick doesn’t seem to think it has any magic left.

Dasher is in good condition, and seemed to enjoy our weeklong trip to bring James and Kenneth back to Fortmain.

I and my friends are all well, and hope you are also. I miss Arcadia, but our adventure is still glorious!

I remain your dutiful son, Alan.

Alan folded the letter to give to Patrick later for the addition of a magical seal.

*****

James and Patrick trudged through a new snowfall to reach the College of Magic. They had been summoned by a message from the Librarian. They were unprepared for the scene that greeted them when they entered the library. The old mage who was the Librarian was arguing loudly with a tween. “I’ll not have these books fall into the hands of those who are coming here,” the Librarian said. “They are more than Evil; they are filth!”

The young mage blustered, “You’ll have no choice, old man. Just wait until my friends get here.” He stormed out of the room without having seen James and Patrick. When he was gone, the Librarian turned to Patrick.

“I’m glad to see you, but this must be your last visit. The college is closing. Two others and I—you know Servius and Cedric—will leave within minutes. The college will no doubt fall into the hands of that young pup and a crew of would-be mages like him. No discipline; no thought for consequences; no understanding of Light and Dark. They’re interested only in power. Here,” he said, as he began removing books from the drawers of his desk and stacking them on the table in front of Patrick. “Take these. Do not be seen with them, and tell no one. I have been sending away books for months, and I intend to destroy the remainder of the library, except for the few books that Servius, Cedric, and I will take, ourselves.”

Patrick opened the sack that had been a gift from his mother: a bottomless bag, it could hold considerably more than its outward appearance suggested. Book after book went into the bag. Neither Patrick nor James had time to read the titles. When they’d finished, Patrick closed the bag and secured it at his belt. “Thank you, my friend,” he said, “and thank you for all your help in the past. We wish you a safe journey. Where will you go?”

“To Barrone,” he said. Seeing Patrick’s look of surprise, he added, “Barrone was once known throughout the world for its College of Magic. During the last Great War, it stood as a beacon to the Light in the south. It was to the port of Barrone that the forces of Light sailed in their drive to the last, great battle. I’ve been in communication with a few mages; we will gather at Barrone. We will reconstitute this library and perhaps some of the past greatness of the college, as well.”

James and Patrick had scarcely made it back to their inn when the fire bells began ringing. Looking into the sky, they saw smoke rising from what had been the finest library between Arcadia and Agium.