Chapter 199

I flopped onto Brinja's bed with an exaggerated groan. “I need advice.”

“Why?” She didn't even look up from her desk.

Charcoal moved across the paper in practiced strokes as she worked on whatever she was sketching today.

She wore black, of course. Black tunic. Black pants. Black belt.

Her blonde hair was braided neatly into an elaborate fishtail braid, and over the last year she'd started darkening the skin around her eyes with makeup.

If she'd been born on Earth, she would've been the poster child for goth girls.

“You're sixteen.”

She slowly lowered the charcoal and looked at me. “That doesn't make any sense.”

“Exactly. That's why I need help.”

“You're weird,” she told me.

“I know you are, but what am I?”

Her brow furrowed. “I just said you're weird.”

“I know you are, but what am I?”

She stared at me. “Is this some weird Earth thing?”

“Pretty much.” I rolled onto my side and propped my head up on one hand. “When I was a kid, if somebody called you a name, you'd just say, ‘I know you are, but what am I?’”

“That’s stupid.”

“Very stupid,” I agreed.

She shook her head and returned to her sketch. “So why are you really here?”

“Because I want to spend time with you and I'm running out of excuses.”

That earned another glance.

I spread my hands. “I haven't found any new graveyards. I don't have any warg packs that need relocating. No abandoned ruins. No haunted forests. No mysterious crypts.”

“Tragic.”

“I know.” I sighed dramatically. “And you're old enough now that asking you to sit outside and look at the stars with me sounds incredibly cheesy.”

“It does. So what's the plan?”

I pointed at her. “That's why I need advice.”

“My advice is that you're weird and should bother somebody else.”

“That's terrible advice,” I whined

“It's excellent advice,” she asserted.

“But it doesn't give me what I want.”

She smirked. “You can't always get what you want.”

I sat bolt upright. “You can't always get what you waaaant...”

“What?”

“But if you try sometiiiiimes...”

“What are you doing?”

“Well, you might just fiiiind...”

I leapt off the bed. “YOU GET WHAT YOU NEED! AAAAAH YEAH!”

Brinja stared at me in horror. “Stop.”

I ignored her completely.

Invisible guitars exploded into existence as my mana rose and burst out of me.

“Singing, ‘We're gonna vent our frustration’… If we don't, we're gonna blow a fifty-amp fuuuuse…”

“I don't even know what that means!”

Neither did anybody in Annwn. That wasn't going to stop me.

I grabbed her hands and pulled her out of her chair.

She tried to resist, for approximately half a second. Then she started laughing.

“Stop!”

I spun her around the room. “Sing it to me, honey! You can't always get what you waaaant-”

She rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might fall out of their sockets, but she was smiling. Actually smiling - even though she fought to stop. Not the tiny smirk she used when she wanted to pretend she wasn't amused.

Eventually the song came to an end. I released her hands and took an exaggerated bow.

Brinja shook her head. “You are so weird.”

“Yeah?” I pointed at her. “I'm the weird one? You just spent five minutes dancing around your room with your father to a song you've never heard before.”

She crossed her arms. “That was your fault.”

“Sounds like something a weird person would say.” I rolled my eyes. “WHATEVER!”

Brinja grabbed a pillow and threw it at my head.

* * *

The next day, Iolite and I headed for Kingsward to investigate governess Clarissea Fenwick, the next name on Amberleigh’s list.

The city sat in southeastern Arvellia on the shores of Lake Aurel, near both the Morentis and Caldris borders. According to local legend, Aurelion himself had ascended somewhere along the lake centuries ago. Whether that was true or not, the city had certainly prospered from the association.

As a border city, Kingsward was wealthy, influential, and strategically important. Morenti goods entered Arvellia through its harbor, while the King's Road carried those same goods east toward Crownreach and beyond.

Like most major Arvellian cities, Kingsward was enclosed by towering walls of seamless white stone, shaped by magic into a single continuous barrier. Three massive towers rose above the city, each capped with a glass dome that glittered in the afternoon sun.

The city itself climbed the lakeshore in broad terraces carved into rolling hills. From where we stood, the far shore was invisible. The lake stretched beyond the horizon, vast enough that my Earth brain compared it to the Great Lakes.

A pair of enormous breakwaters protected the harbor. Stone piers reached deep into the water, providing docking space for dozens - not a hundred - ships.

Beyond them, islands dotted the lake like scattered emeralds. Some were little more than rocky outcroppings. Others were large enough to support farms, villages, and even small forests.

Aside from the harbor, Kingsward Gate was the city's only entrance.

We were still several miles away when storm clouds roiled through the sky in exactly the way they shouldn’t. Clouds erupted outward from a single point overhead.

Not drifted. Not gathered. Erupted. Like some villain had nearly completed a ritual and the portal to Hell was opening above us.

The clouds spread unnaturally fast, rolling across the heavens in every direction. And they weren't gray. They were green.

The world took on a sickly emerald hue.

Rain began to fall. The wind followed. Then the clouds overhead started rotating.

My stomach sank. “That's probably bad.”

Iolite glanced upward. “Probably.”

The spinning mass of clouds lowered toward the earth - a twisting funnel descending.

I’d never seen a tornado in person. But I'd watched The Wizard of Oz. I'd watched Twister. I'd watched enough weather reports to know exactly what I was looking at.

It touched down over a mile away. The funnel plowed through farmland, ripping up soil and crops and leaving behind a scar of churned earth where fields had stood moments before.

Iolite remained perfectly still. The wind snapped her dress and hair about wildly, but she stood as steady as a mountain. She didn't shield her eyes. Didn't brace herself. She simply endured.

I wasn't nearly so dignified. The wind caught my cloak and tried to murder me with it. I grabbed it before it could wrap around my throat and take matters into its own hands. Rain, dirt, and bits of grass pelted my face. The wind shoved at me hard enough that I had to plant my feet. I grabbed Iolite's shoulder for support and found it as solid as carved stone.

Every survival instinct I possessed screamed at me to run. I ignored all of them.

This wasn't natural. Which meant it was here for a reason.

The funnel barreled toward us. Closer. Closer.

The roar became deafening.

Just as I started wondering whether gods could get sucked into tornadoes, the funnel collapsed. The winds vanished. The storm fell silent.

And a lone figure stood where the tornado had been.

Rain fell upward around her.

Hair crackled in sharp yellow bolts on her head - like a plasma globe reaching out towards your fingers. Her skin churned with the dark gray of storm clouds, occasionally illuminated from within by flickers of distant lightning.

Kaelira - the Tempest Queen.

“That's one way to make an entrance,” I said with a sigh. “You know, those farmers probably would've preferred if you didn't redecorate their fields.”

I looked toward the destruction. “I hope you were nice enough not to hurt anyone.”

Kaelira turned and examined the damaged farmland as though noticing it for the first time. “They should have moved them.”

I stared. “The farmers?”

“The fields.”

I stared harder. “That's not how fields work.”

She looked back at me.

“Do you even know what a field is?”

“That isn't why I'm here,” she said, her voice flat.

“Clearly.” I rubbed my face. “Why are you here?”

“Because Faith is shifting.”

The winds stirred around her.

“And new gods seem to appear wherever you go.”

“Naevira?” I asked.

Her expression didn't change.

“Yes. She's the new goddess of refuge. I've been helping her figure out the whole divinity thing.”

Kaelira tilted her head slightly. “I see.” Then she simply stared at me.

The silence stretched. And stretched. And stretched. Eventually it became physically uncomfortable.

“Was there anything else?” I finally asked.

“What happens when she dies?”

“Naevira?” I frowned. “I'm not going to let that happen.”

“No.” The word cut through the air. “Nyssira.”

The humor vanished from my face. “I'm not going to let that happen either.”

“You can't control everything.” There was no accusation in her voice. No anger. No mockery.

I met her gaze. “You're right.”

The wind tugged at my cloak.

“But I'm going to do everything in my power to make sure it doesn't.”

She studied me for several long moments.

Then the clouds above began to rotate once more. The wind returned. A second funnel descended from the sky and swallowed her whole. Lightning flashed inside the twisting column.

A heartbeat later the tornado unraveled. The storm dissipated. Kaelira was gone.

Only the rain remained.

I stood there staring at the empty field. Then I sighed. “I'm starting to understand the Shepherd.”

Iolite glanced at me. “That is not a reassuring statement.”

“No,” I admitted. “It really isn't.”

Taking her hand, I turned back toward Kingsward.

Together we continued toward the city.

* * *

Iolite and I entered the city without issue.

Unlike Stormwall, most of the buildings here rose three stories or more. Weathered copper roofs covered many of them, their surfaces long since turned green with verdigris. Arches framed doors, windows, and walkways everywhere I looked - a clear sign of Morenti influence.

The architecture shared the same roots as Stormwall, but there was far more stone here. Many buildings were constructed entirely from dressed limestone and granite. Even those that still used timber often reserved it for the uppermost floors. The rough fieldstone common elsewhere was nowhere to be found.

Kingsward felt older than Stormwall. Less planned.

The streets twisted and wandered as though generations had simply built wherever there had been room. Some roads were broad enough for wagons to pass comfortably. Others narrowed into crooked alleys where two people could barely walk abreast. Dead ends appeared without warning. Buildings crowded close together. It would've been easy to get lost if you didn't know where you were going.

It looked like the sort of place a person could spend years living in and still discover streets they'd never seen before.

By the time we arrived, it was late afternoon.

Our first stop was an inn.

The Black Hound proved warm, dry, and inviting - a welcome change after spending an hour being assaulted by Kaelira's weather. The common room was only beginning to fill, and we managed to secure a table without much trouble.

While we waited for dinner, I listened to the conversations around us.

Many revolved around the tornado we'd just witnessed.

What surprised me wasn't that people were talking about it - it was how unconcerned they seemed. A few ruined fields apparently ranked somewhere between an inconvenience and a tax increase.

“My wheat's flattened,” one farmer complained.

“At least you've still got wheat,” another shot back.

“Kaelira's angry,” a third muttered.

A woman snorted into her drink. “Kaelira's always angry.”

At another table, a merchant was losing an argument with his bookkeeper.

“I paid the harbor fee,” the merchant complained.

“You paid last season's harbor fee.”

“That's still a harbor fee.”

“Not this harbor fee.” The bookkeeper pinched the bridge of his nose. “How are you always surprised by taxes?”

Nearby sat an elderly couple. Their Faith shone brighter than most - warm and familiar in a way that made me smile.

“You remember the old bridge?” the husband asked.

“The wooden one?” his wife replied with a smile.

He nodded. “The one that collapsed.”

She laughed. “You were trying to impress me.”

“I did impress you.”

“You fell in the river.”

“That was part of the plan.”

She laughed. “You cried.”

“It was cold.”

Her laughter only grew.

Near the hearth sat four laborers - mud-spattered, exhausted, and still damp from the rain.

“More of them came through yesterday,” one said quietly.

Another immediately lowered his voice. “How many?”

“Six.”

“Together?”

The first shook his head. “No. Never together.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

The fourth man frowned. “Same destination?”

The laborer nodded and stared into his mug. “Always.”

I filed that conversation away. I had no idea what they were talking about, but it didn't sound good.

At another table, three hunters sat sharing dinner.

“Found another Gallows,” a woman said.

“Where?” asked one of the men.

“South woods.”

“Close?”

“Closer than I'd like.”

The third hunter stared into his drink. “There's always another one.”

Nobody argued.

Dinner arrived shortly afterward.

Nothing I'd heard was especially helpful. Nothing condemned Lady Fenwick. Nothing pointed toward the Covenant. Still, investigations were often built on scraps.

I asked our waitress about the governess. She shrugged.

Apparently Lady Fenwick wasn't the sort of person people spent much time gossiping about. That was both encouraging and annoying.

We did learn one useful thing - the governess didn't actually live inside the city. Her estate sat north of Kingsward on a peninsula overlooking Lake Aurel.

By the time dinner ended, the rain had dwindled to a light drizzle.

Iolite and I left the city and followed the shoreline north.

The estate was easy enough to find. The wooded peninsula extended into the lake, and nestled among old trees sat the manor.

It wasn't fortified. Wasn't isolated. You could actually see it from portions of the city wall. It was simply... idyllic.

Private docks extended into the lake. Ancient trees shaded carefully maintained gardens. A decorative wall surrounded the property more for aesthetics than defense. A well-worn path connected the estate to the King's Road.

The manor itself was large, rising three stories above the grounds. Its steep roof bore the same green copper found throughout Kingsward.

The paint was fresh. The stone clean. The front door showed none of the scratches or neglect common to older estates.

Every detail was maintained. Not obsessively. Just carefully.

The stained-glass windows glowed softly from within. Their shutters stood open but could be closed in moments if needed.

Flower boxes hung beneath each one, overflowing with seasonal blooms.

A fountain sent a steady stream of water into the air where the main path split around it.

Two guards stood watch at the gate. Relaxed. Alert. Professional.

Other buildings dotted the grounds - a stable, servant quarters, storage sheds, and a boathouse among them. The entire estate felt expensive without being extravagant. Wealthy without being ostentatious.

The sort of place built by someone comfortable with their status rather than desperate to reach beyond it.

Iolite and I found a perch in a tall tree overlooking the grounds and settled in for the night.

The evening unfolded exactly as you'd expect. Servants closed shutters. Stable hands fed horses. Kitchen staff carried scraps to the pigs. Lanterns flickered to life one by one as daylight faded.

At one point a woman emerged onto a covered balcony.

Lady Fenwick, I assumed.

She looked to be in her early fifties. Average build. The sort of graceful beauty that came from confidence rather than youth.

A blanket rested across her shoulders while a steaming cup warmed her hands. Her sandy-blonde hair had only begun to gray and fell in tight curls held back by jeweled pins. Beneath the blanket she wore a royal-blue velvet dress trimmed in gold embroidery.

She stood there for several minutes, gazing out over the lake before returning inside.

About half an hour later she appeared again - this time she spoke with an elderly groundskeeper in one of the gardens. We couldn't hear their words, but we saw them laugh. Both of them. Genuinely.

Later - perhaps around eight - she emerged once more and sat alone on a bench in another garden.

Her Faith brightened slightly as she sat there. Not dramatically - just enough for me to notice. The silver of legacy and duty with the blue of compassion - like moonlight on linen.

She remained there for nearly half an hour before returning inside. Alone. Then returned indoors.

Around midnight, a small rowboat emerged from the darkness of the lake.

No lantern. No signal light. Just two figures crossing black water beneath a cloudy sky.

The boat reached the private dock.

A woman stepped ashore.

The rower immediately turned the boat around and headed back out onto the lake.

The woman was average height, dark-haired, and wrapped in a cloak against the cold.

A servant met her at the dock, then escorted her through the front door.

No secrecy. No hidden entrances. No suspicious behavior. Just the front door.

Several hours later she emerged again, leaving the same way she entered.

As she crossed the grounds toward the dock, Iolite spoke softly beside me.

“She's crying,” Iolite said softly.

I studied the woman more carefully.

She was right.

The woman wiped at her eyes as she walked toward the dock. Not devastated. Relieved. As though some burden she'd carried for a very long time had finally become lighter.

Just before dawn, another small detail caught our attention.

One of the servants - a man - left the estate and followed the shoreline toward the city.

About halfway there stood a small boathouse.

The servant unlocked it, went inside for several minutes, then emerged and returned to the estate.

Nothing dramatic. Nothing suspicious.

Just enough to make me wonder why someone felt the need to check it before sunrise.