After a leisurely breakfast, we head southwest from Kennobe. We’re back in Horonai, but that can’t be helped. They’ve not bothered me directly, but the Guild can be stingy about licensing for musicians, overseen by something called the Players’ Guild. It’s an abhorrent excuse for sucking money out of the arts. Although there's not much to be made in the first place, if I’m any example. Earlier, Arriel returned my other flask, and I had both of them filled by a chipper Gertrid. Arriel watched and sucked on something sour while I ate breakfast, handmade by Jerry.

  She coldly clanks behind me as we set foot to the road. I sing and play for the beautiful, sunny morning. We've left the bustle of the city behind, and thick, mountainous forest droops on either side of the road. We’re getting closer to the bay, and the smell of saltwater drifts from the east. I pull out my flask, slinging my mandolin behind me.

  “What’s your story?” I ask, turning to her. “Where’re you from?”

  She sighs. “Carthesia.”

  Carthesia is a massive, miles-wide city over in southern Talnir, the complete other side of the world. It’s divided into the Low, Mid, and High. Needless to say, the richer you are, the further up you go. I’ve been there a few times, not higher than the Mid on a good day. “What part?”

  “My wife is Lady Brivari Ronchellard. We have an estate in the High.”

  I stop. “Your wife?”

  She stops, too. “Is that a problem?”

  “You being gay? Or you being some kind of noblewoman?”

  “I’m not a noblewoman. I was an acolyte at a medical tent she visited after she got into a fight. I married into her family. And I’m not gay.”

  I take a drink and keep walking, giving her a side-eye. “I’m no expert, but you being face-deep in a woman seems fairly gay to me. No judgment, of course. In fact, I think you’ve got excellent taste.”

  “I’ve had sex with men and other people, too.”

  “I wasn’t asking to be privy to your licentious activities.” I put my hands up. “Unless - are you… propositioning me? Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. We’ve just met.”

  She scowls. “I – you are infuriating.”

  It’s gonna take more getting her to go away. “Well, you seem to like talking about your lovely wife, so tell me about her. What’s she doing right now?”

  She’s quiet for a moment while we walk. Her armor more than fills the silence. “She’s in the Nine Hells. She has family there and is looking for help with our… task. Believe me when I say it’s much more important than this, and I should be there with her.”

  I laugh. “The cleric of Iros is married to a half-devil?”

  She glares. “Yes.”

  “Alright, I’ll bite. What’s this important task? Poking around castles looking for a holy grail?”

  She stops, gesturing up at the sky. “I’m sure you’ve noticed the rings are gone. Orinthius, the god of nightmares, has reformed the broken moon that fell into the planet during the Vanquishment. It happened over a thousand years ago, before the pantheon sealed him away. Ornice is his seat of power, and from it, he’ll try to take over the world again. We’ve been fighting his cultists in Talnir and Vesh, and they’re close to success. We’re gathering powerful heroes to stop him.”

  I take a drink. I blanked out halfway through. “You’re trying to convince me there’s three moons?”

  “There are three moons. It’s visible right now.”

  “You’re not terribly wise, are you? Are you one of those people who thinks Coramine is flat?”

  She blinks. “I’m not –” She stops, looking at me with dipped brows. “What kind of magic do you have? How powerful is it?”

  “No,” I say, shaking my head and walking along. I point back at her with my flask. “I’m not joining your little flat Coramine society. I’ve got more important things than some cliched, dead god just waiting with a monologue.”

  She trots to catch up, clanking all the while. “And what important things are those? Where is Seven Oaks, anyway?”

  “Smack in the middle of Ammon.”

  “That’s a desert.”

  “And highly notable for its exactly seven oaks.”

  She makes a disgusted noise and falls quiet.

  She doesn’t say much more as we walk along. I’m not sure what’s worse – that she’s a cleric or that she’s rich. But it’s typical, her thinking I can drop everything and save the world. Best case, I’d go through all that effort to end up in a ditch again. Gods don’t mean much when you’re wondering where your next drink is coming from. Here’s hoping her task calls her elsewhere and she leaves.

  I bring my mandolin around and begin riffing an intro. A song’s taking shape in my head. I begin singing:

  I once met a lady, so righteous and fair

  She shimmers as godly as her golden hair

  But her heart belongs to a dame

  Of devil blood

  Her heart that throbs wet between her legs

  She's the lady cleric

  The lady cleric

  She glares at me sidelong. I continue, gaining momentum:

  A faint whiff of brimstone

  The heat of barbed skin

  A lingering taste of

  Her infernal sin

  But how will she serve the heavens

  When face-first in hell?

  Will pussy at last bring her low -

  “Would you please stop?” she cuts in.

  “You’re a real patron of the arts, I see,” I throw back. “Something a bit more god-honoring, maybe?” I switch to a different song, like riding a fast wave.

  Call on the light that guides us

  When you have far to go

  And when you can't find home -

  I turn, gesturing for her to take it from there. She only glares. “I will not sing for you.”

  “It’s a kids’ song. We’ll do it together.”

  “No.”

  I guffaw. “The alphabet song, then? I can do it in goblin if you’re so inclined, off-putting little creature that you are.”

  Her eyes suddenly dart behind me. They widen. “Look out!”

  She shoves me. I hit the ground, sprawling. Something hisses overhead. She ducks, her mace in hand. I roll, whirling to look.

  Ahead of us on the road stands a person. I blink. The road’s still spinning a little. It’s a rabbitfolk, judging by their ears - male, maybe. And he's got a bow trained on us. And an arrow.

  “Fuck me,” I hiss.

  I spring up. I sling my mandolin behind me, drawing swords. It’s a fight, then. I sprint toward him.

  The gap closes quickly. The rabbit fumbles, eyes wide. I dodge. The arrow sails past, crackling and humming with dark gray magic. Arriel clanks behind me. She’s got her shield out. The rabbit skips back. I leap, thrusting down.

  “Help!” He incants, extending a paw-hand. My blade meets blustery magic. Two more slashes skip across it. Arriel gapes at me.

  “Apparate!”

  Then the rabbit’s gone.

  With a puff of dark wind and ears, he appears twenty feet behind us. I clench my jaw.

  Arriel holds up her amulet. Gold light solidifies around her, hovering over her armor. “Dawn Lord, protect me,” she incants.

  Then an arrow punches into my stomach.

  Something cracks. I nearly lose my feet. And my breakfast. “Sweet fucking hells!” I spit. Blood comes out with it. It hurts like a motherfucker. I’m not numb enough for this.

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  “Gods, are you alright?” she asks, whirling.

  “Quit bouncing on that mace and go hit something with it,” I throw back. I stumble toward the rabbit who’s fetching another arrow.

  She pauses, something like grim determination settling into her face. She clanks toward him. An arrow punches into her shield.

  Another arrow sails at me. I duck. My lower half is throbbing. I keep going. He’ll fold in half if we can get close.

  “Come say that over here, you piss-eared moppet!”

  Arriel smacks him in the leg.

  The crack splits the air. He howls. I slash at him three more times. He dodges, ducks, and weaves. He’s fast. I clip the top of an ear. He clutches it. “Ow! Disperse!”

  Wind swirls. Suddenly, I’m even further away. Arriel, too.

  I almost chuck a sword at the ground. “I’m gonna wipe my ass with those ears,” I grit through my teeth. I’m starting to get dizzy.

  “Are you sure you’re okay –”

  I point with a blade. “He’s scramming! Stop him!”

  Down the road, the rabbit hauls his bobtail ass away from us. She clanks, closing the gap, but not fast enough. She pulls out her amulet again, thrusting a hand out.

  “By the light of the Dawn Lord, cease!”

  The rabbit stops. He freezes mid-step, keeling over in a puff of dust.

  I hustle, the arrow in me grating with every step. The rabbit is rigid – like a sculpture tossed on the ground. I heave, covered in sweat. The road is spinning. I come to my knees, dropping my weapons. I tug on the arrow shaft in me. My insides tug with it. It’s barbed against the mail. I look at the sky. The back of my throat floods.

  “Here, let me –”

  “Fuck off,” I snap. Arriel backs away.

  There’s no easy way of doing this. I breathe and take a long drink from my flask, then wrench the arrow out. Blood pours out with it, dark and thick. I gag, bile rising. I turn and spew onto the dirt road. I groan. The clenching makes it worse. I fumble for my mandolin, breathing and strumming the three chords. It crackles and glows pink, its magic igniting. Things knit back together a little. The throbbing eases. There’s a hole punched in my mail.

  “My spell is about to fade,” she says.

  I pick up my shortswords, staggering to my feet. I punt my boot in the rabbit’s gut. A tight groan comes out.

  Suddenly, the rabbit relaxes, collapsing onto the road. I level a blade at him. He coughs, clutching his stomach. His longbow vanishes in a puff of smoke. “Wait. Please don’t kill me. I messed up. I shouldn’t have attacked. Please just let me go.” He puts his paw-hands up. “I needed the money. It’s not worth it.”

  I hesitate. There’s godsdamned tears in his eyes. He looks pathetic. He’s young and lanky – maybe a handful of years younger than me, with mottled, light-brown fur. It's matted with sweat and road dust. I sigh.

  “What money?” I say. I don’t know why I’m asking. I already know.

  He pats himself, rifling in the pocket of his wide-sleeved shirt. It’s dark gray, the same as his hakama. He’s not wearing any armor. I tap the edge of my shortsword against him. It meets magical resistance. “Okay, let me up, please? Here.”

  He gets to his rabbit feet, hobbling on his busted leg. He holds out a folded piece of paper. I sheath a sword and snatch it, unfolding it. Arriel watches him carefully, peering over my shoulder.

  It’s a wanted notice.

  It’s got a picture of me, shoddily drawn, but a halfway decent resemblance – I chopped my hair months ago, but the Vasterholmian style is still there, shaved down on either side. I’ve lost the unruly beard since then, too, now nobody’s keeping me from a knife. Somehow, I look far younger.

  But what sends me reaching for my flask is the fact that the job’s paying 10,000 gold.

  I crumple the poster and stuff it away, taking a long drink. “Do yourself a favor and find a better way to get your coin.”

  “Yeah, I will,” the rabbit says, nodding emphatically. “Sorry. From what I heard, I thought you’d be an… easy target.”

  I gesture at him with my flask. “That depends on what’s your goal.”

  Arriel shoots me a glance, then turns back to him. “Do we have your promise that no more harm will come to us?”

  “Yeah, absolutely,” the rabbit says, putting his hands up. “I thought bounty hunting might pay well, but…”

  “It does when you’re good at it,” I say. “Look. Dragging me back there is more hassle than it’s worth. You’re gonna hear ‘Baby Shark’ for an awfully long time. Save yourself the headache.”

  Arriel nods.

  “Right. Can I make it up to you both? Would you like a drink? Something to eat?”

  I glance at Arriel and shrug. I’d not say no to a drink. She doesn’t look half as agreeable. “He just tried to –”

  “Sure,” I say. “And who are you, by the way?”

  “Oh! I’m Weekes,” he says, holding out a paw-hand. I take it. It’s soft with downy fur. “Weekes Windpaw.”

  “Chouncey of Seven Oaks. This here’s Lady Arriel. She’s sticking to me like a hot ballsack for now.”

  Arriel shoots me another glance.

  Weekes nods. “It's nice to meet you both. Here, I have a place we can go. It’s a demiplane. Don’t worry, you can leave anytime.”

  He pulls a necklace out of his shirt, and it’s got a small silver lamp on the end of it. “Enter,” he says.

  My stomach turns upside down, and suddenly we’re inside a room. I stare.

  The whole place is covered in richly colored drapes. Soft-looking couches are covered in pillows next to expensive, low wood tables laden with candles and incense, and decorative bowls spilling with fruit. It’s lit from nowhere, ambient light keeping it comfortably dim. And on a pedestal in the corner is a stone bust of a head, bald with a drooping mustache.

  I take another drink. “How’d you get this kind of magic?”

  Weekes flops on a couch, propping his backward leg on a tube-shaped pillow. “Oh, um… my dad gave it to me.”

  I gesture toward the statue with my flask. “Who’s your dad, the Summer King?”

  “What? No. He’s my…”

  “Patron,” Arriel says. There’s distaste in her voice. She doesn’t take her armor off, just stands there looking around, hand on her mace. There's no couch in the world soft enough for the rod she's got shoved up her ass.

  Weekes busies himself rummaging. He pulls out a drawer underneath the couch – a cold box. I ease onto another couch across from him. I’m sore and exhausted. The rug underneath me is shag.

  “What do you drink?” he asks.

  “Whiskey, if you’ve got it. Lady Arriel, what are you having?”

  “I’m not – nothing, thank you.”

  “She’ll take the same.”

  He holds up a bottle. “I have this. It’s a 50-year-old dwarven whiskey. Does that sound good?”

  I’m a whisper away from creaming myself. “I’ll take that. Give your patron daddy my kind thanks. In the meantime, I think you and I are gonna be friends.”

  He smiles, revealing big, square teeth. I flick out my arcane hand and take the bottle from him.

  He brings out snacks, offering up nuts, cheeses, and vegetables, chatting about his magical room all the while. I pour shots, tossing down a couple. It’s exquisite, nearly sending me to tears. Arriel only sips it. I pluck a few harmonic tones on my mandolin and stroke a ley line, shaping its power. Soft, ambient music starts playing from nowhere – a slow piano version of “The Light That Guides.” Both of them glance up and around. I shrug out of my mail, put a hand on it, and hum along with the music while the links fuse back together. With a few snaps of my fingers, the blood vanishes, too. Finally, Arriel sets about noisily taking off her plates, stacking them in the corner. I watch her shoulders shift while she does it. She can certainly hold up in a fight. I’m impressed, if not a few other things.

  “Would you like me to heal your leg?” she asks Weekes.

  “Oh, um… I mean, you don’t have to –”

  She perches on the couch next to him, then pulls out her amulet and puts a hand on his backward knee. Gold light flashes from her hand. “Dawn Lord, mend this wound.”

  His leg cracks back together. “Ow. Thanks.”

  “You’re a healer?” I ask, gesturing with the bottle. I take a swig from it. “Why didn’t you lead with that?”

  She transfers to a third couch. I top off her drink with my arcane hand. “Why didn’t you tell me about the bounty?”

  I drape an arm across the back of my couch. “You’re right – I should’ve been honest when you showed up, saying you’re looking for me, sparing the details.”

  She ignores it. “What are you wanted for?”

  My insides clench up. “Kindly, that’s none of your fucking business.”

  “It will be if more people come after you. I’m supposed to be keeping you alive.”

  “I didn’t see you jumping in front of that arrow.”

  She sighs. She thrashes back the shot on the table. “Don’t make me do this the hard way.”

  “By what, pecking me to death? You’re halfway there already.”

  Weekes laughs. He holds out a paw-hand for the bottle. I send it over with my arcane hand.

  Arriel puts her face in her hands. “Can you please just tell me?”

  She’s not gonna let it go. “Alright, fine,” I say, quieting. “You want my sob story?” I pause, shaping my illusory music to something more somber. “I’m from the Northern Marshes – I spent most of my life there. I lived all alone in the swamps, and that’s how I liked it. I had a beautiful little shack with everything I needed. Nobody bothered me, aside from the occasional intruder. I scared them off well enough. I did whatever I wanted, day after day.”

  Weekes watches with big, attentive eyes. He nods along. Arriel’s brows are moving closer together.

  I continue. “It turns out the local lord wanted certain groups of people – fey, mostly, and animal folk – out of his land. He didn’t like the look of them. One day, some of them stumbled through my swamp, looking for somewhere to go. One of them was this…” I gesture. “Talking donkey –”

  Arriel holds up a hand, drawing a circle. Gold light starts to flare. “Dawn Lord, bring truth to light –”

  I throw up a middle finger. I rip a handful of magic from the nearest ley line and chuck it at her. The light in her hand fizzles into a puff of pink smoke in the shape of a heart.

  I point at her. “Don’t go there.”

  Weekes blinks, looking between us.

  She pauses, looking me over. “Then please be honest with me.”

  Weekes said we could leave anytime. How do I do that? There’s no door. Can I teleport from here? I look down at the half-empty bottle of whiskey, now back in my hands. I take another drink. If I go away, she’ll find me again, likely twice as mad and thricely annoying. She’ll bother me forever, or yank it out of me with magic. I’d rather get dragged a mile down the road than brush against all that again. My guts churn. I look at her. She’s looking at me expectantly, but her face isn’t hard anymore. There’s something like pity in it. Something deep inside me begins to crash and churn like waves against a rocky shore.

  “What information did you get?” I say, turning to Weekes. He should know what he was getting himself into - what he was supporting.

  He stumbles for a moment. “Um, not much. It’s 10,000 gold – 20,000 if I bring you to Jor.”

  I lean forward, looking at Arriel. “Do you know what they do on the Byrian Isles? They keep slaves.”

  Her face goes slack, and she blinks. “I’m sorry –”

  I laugh. “You think this is just some way to score points with your god, saving me from myself. Why hasn't your church saved me from the man whose property I am?”

  “I didn’t know –”

  “Sure, you’ve got gods to worry about back in your fancy estate with your lady wife.” I look at Weekes. “If you bring me back to that godsforsaken island, they’ll split me open and tie me out for the tide. You'll get your 20,000 gold while I die so slowly I’ll be begging for it." I hold up my mandolin by the neck. "I took the Warchief's property. And to them and everywhere else in the world, worse than being property is taking property.”

  Silence rings for a moment. I toss the mandolin on the couch and take another long drink. I can only look at the heart-shaped sound hole.

  “They call him Irminric the Black. It’s the color of his fucking heart. I was his favorite – the gem of his hoard. Besting him and getting away was humiliating for him. He’s not gonna rest until he’s got me in pieces. Publicly. So that's why I'm wanted, if that satisfies you.”

  “How can we help?”

  It’s Arriel. I stop. Her voice is quiet. She’s looking at me, her brows soft. I’m not sure why it makes my throat tighten up. I glance around. I still don’t see a way out of here.

  “Wait, we?” Weekes says. He looks between us.

  “You seem capable,” Arriel says. His ears straighten.

  I sit back, looking at both of them.

  They’re offering to help. I choke back a laugh. It’s five years too late. But maybe it’s not. What have I even done with my freedom? I never had a plan anyway. But I could do something about it. Irminric’s never gonna stop looking for me. I’ll never be free as long as he’s alive. But if I could kill him?

  Then, I’d be as free as I’ll ever be.

  Arriel was sent here by her sun god and is staying until otherwise. I’ll at least have one ally when Irminric catches me, if she doesn’t decide it’s not her fight and leave. But it is her fight if Iros says so. Maybe I can rely on that. I glance over at Weekes. He’s got magical talent, I’ll give him that – even if it’s a gift from his patron daddy. And he needs money. I’ve never done well with groups. Bands are almost always too much trouble. But maybe it’s a necessary trouble.

  “You can help me kill him,” I say. I turn to Weekes. “I’ll get you into Irminric's vault. You’ll get your 20,000 gold.”

  His eyes light up. “Okay.”

  “Chouncey,” Arriel says quietly. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

  I shrug. “What are my options? I'm an absolute regular in the ditches around here. I’m living on borrowed time.”

  “And what if he catches you?”

  I can see it there before me then, like the glimpses I get sometimes at the bottom of a bottle – the sight of a burnt slave split open and tied to a rock for the tide. I’m beginning to get jittery. The black waters deep inside me churn and foam, the sound beginning to roar. It’s bottomless, waiting to suck me down if I peer too close. It’s lost time and the possibility of what it could’ve been. And it’s the reality of what’s scoured in me and never to be smoothed away. But mostly, it’s just darkness, cold and pressing like the depths of the ocean, complete and utter loneliness. A cliff that’s too easy to step off.

  “Don’t let him,” I say.

  She takes a deep breath, pours herself another shot, and tosses it back. Her face scrunches. “Then where do we start?”