Maegar Varn, Baron of Varnhold and Dunsward (and the Tors of Levenies, but nobody ever cared to mention that place), woke gasping for breath, as if he emerged from swamp water with fibres of algae dangling from his head. He groaned and rubbed his temples, slowly getting a grasp of the waking world: the crumpled sheets drenched in sweat, the double bed that was way too big for one person, the sunlight peeking through the curtains with motes of dust dancing in it.

  He'd dreamt about her again. This time the fey had been peeling off her face, like so many masks, layer by layer, until only a whimpering little girl remained, scared and lonely in the wide world, surrounded by madness and agony. And they'd laughed and laughed...

  Those dreams usually stuck around for the day, until the following night, when they returned in another version, the new motifs getting mixed up with those of the original dream, slowly grinding Maegar's sanity to dust. He'd thought they would go away after the funeral held for the earthly remains of the Lostlarn Keep taskforce, to whom he'd dedicated a memorial plaque at the entrance to Varnhold Keep. The plaque had General Darlac's name, too. Cephal had made sure it would, which had led to another bitter fallout between him and the baron. It was hard to appreciate his acts of comradeship, all intended to hammer home the less and less disputable fact that Darlac was no more. The members of the Host had started to wear black armbands in remembrance of their lost General. It was almost like a closure, one Maegar was not yet ready for.

  However, he couldn't go on like this.

  Over the last two days, he'd gone through the ledgers several times to check if everything was up to standard. Numbers always helped in the hours of despair. They calmed him down, smuggling some semblance of order into the chaos in his head. They let him imagine he'd never left the family estate and was now doing the accounting for his father, as a dutiful fifth son would – and this, in turn, helped him appreciate what he actually had. A life full of adventures behind him, fascinating stories to tell, an amazing woman to love (currently trapped in another dimension and being tortured to madness by the fey) and a country to rule (once he could force himself to leave his quarters and do some actual work).

  Ultimately, the ledgers, too, had failed him. After the tenth review he had to acknowledge they were perfectly in order. Kjerdi was the best Treasurer he could wish for. Now she was holding the line along with Cephal, while the baron was wallowing in his grief, hiding behind columns of numbers. There was no more excuse. He had to man up, go out and rule. He had to make General Darlac proud, even if she only lived on in his heart. (It felt strangely comforting to refer to her by title and surname, putting a little distance between him and his loss, just enough to allow him to breathe. In this way, he could envision her as a fallen comrade, rather than a piece of living flesh ripped out of his body.)

  But first...

  He fumbled on his nightstand for a glass of water, sweeping the bell off to the ground. Its sound made him flinch. Gods, was it hard to resist the urge to burrow back under the blanket and cease to exist.

  The bedroom door opened to a crack, and Martyn popped his balding head into the room.

  "My lord?"

  "Good morning, Martyn. I think I'll need a bath."

  The baron flopped back onto his pillow, gathering his strength. As if he had any.

  The bath Martyn drew for him was ice-cold, straight from the river. The old rascal knew his master better than he had any right to. Hot baths were for fun times, to be shared with his beloved before a lazy night spent with a bottle of Chelaxian wine and lots of lovemaking. Relaxing in hot water all alone would only deepen his grief. What he needed now was a wake-up call, and that required cold water. Also, it saved precious time. Who the hell wanted to soak himself for an hour amidst godsdamned ice floes?

  Properly refreshed and smelling better than anytime during his days spent with the ledgers, he entered the throne room.

  The audience was about to start in fifteen minutes. The throne stood empty and desolate behind a cordon, while the Lord Regent was seated in his own working chair, now moved in front of the dais. Cephal's desk was occupied by Treasurer Kjerdi, seated atop a high stool nicked from the inn so that she could reach its surface properly. In a way, the atmosphere of temporariness felt reassuring, but it also filled the baron's heart with guilt. His friends had not yet given up on him. They had his back and soldiered on, acting as his substitutes as much as they could, but never thinking to replace him.

  Cephal raised an eyebrow at his arrival.

  "Kjerdi," he said wryly. "Looks like the grumpy bear has left his cave. Does that mean we'll have good weather this year?"

  "Bear?" The Treasurer chuckled under her breath. "More like a marmot. Good to have you back, Your Grace."

  The baron slammed the ledgers down on Cephal's (or now Kjerdi's) desk.

  "Everything's in order," he grunted. "Well done, Kjerdi."

  "Nice to hear that, Your Grace," remarked the dwarf, her sharp, slate-grey eyes squinting at him from under her bushy eyebrows. "Considering how you took your bloody time checking them, I assumed they were full of embarrassing errors."

  "I, for one, was thinking those ledgers would hatch into chicks," chimed in Cephal, "what with your brooding over them for more than a week."

  "What week? It was just two days."

  "Nine days, to be exact, my lord," said Martyn as he appeared out of nowhere, balancing a tray with a pot of strong black tea, three cups, milk and sugar. He put it all down next to the ledgers, then moved on to occupy his position outside the entrance of the throne room and take up service as the baron's usher.

  Nine... days. Had Maegar lost his grip on his life so badly? Hell, those moments he'd spent staring out the window, reading and re-reading Baroness Guelder's letter of condolence, so warm and full of hope despite the genre, nursing his injuries after taking on a massive training dummy bare-fisted as per the Bruiser's advice (it was a mystery why he'd even turned to a Scaled Fist monk for help with grief management), recovering from one nightmare and dreading the onset of another, or just simply thinking of General Darlac – they all added up to a frightening amount of wasted time. Time that would have been better spent ruling his barony, preparing more rescue plans, or even hiring resourceful adventurers to do the dirty work. The number of people who believed in Darlac's return was dwindling by the day – and, in fact, so were his chances for a happy reunion. What hope could he have if time flowed through his fingers like desert sand?

  "Anyway, now that I'm back, remove that cordon thingy before someone trips over it. Yours truly, for instance."

  The audience proved to be unusually interesting. The first petitioner was a dwarf lady named Dri Stinvag, who claimed that she and her miners had discovered a site rich in iron and other types of ore in the Tors of Levenies, due south of Lostlarn Keep. However the baron rummaged in his memories, he couldn't recall if or when he'd given mining permission to this enterprise. It must have been one of those moments (or days, or weeks) he'd been zoned out and signed any document slipped in front of him by Cephal or Kjerdi. It made him wonder what else he'd signed in that state of mental catatonia. Anyway, he was more than happy to have a mining enterprise operating in his lands. Iron was always good to have, and perhaps Varnhold could finally start to produce its own, hot or cold. Also, perhaps Dri would be willing to part with some explosives for the noble cause of blasting Lostlarn Keep off the face of Golarion forever. That would be a closure of sorts.

  The next petitioner was a messenger from Restov, bringing a letter from Lady Jamandi. What could she want? The baron had been extremely careful not to mention in his reports the Lostlarn Keep fiasco, let alone his General's disappearance. The fewer players of international politics became aware that his army was currently decapitated, the better. If Jamandi had learnt about that nonetheless, that meant they had a Restovic spy in their midst.

  However, Jamandi's letter didn't say a word about Darlac.

  Cephal instructed Martyn to leave them a little time before introducing the next petitioner and ensure their privacy. He counted to ten after the door closed behind the Restovic messenger, then he exclaimed:

  "Prepare the army, Maegar! This is what we've been waiting for!"

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  "What?" asked the baron absently, staring at the door and processing the message. I see why Genner went silent lately...

  "You've heard what the letter says! Monsters are running rampant in Tuskdale, the baroness went missing, and her general fled back to Restov. Her army is just as headless as ours, except that we have you, a ruler well-versed in warfare who can lead his own troops if the situation so requires. This, my friend, is your opening. Get the Varnlings ready, rally the units you've hired out to Nightvale, and attack!"

  "Bloody hell, Cephal!" snapped the baron. "We've been through this a hundred times. I'm not going to attack my ally in trouble! If I ever set foot on her territory, that will be in order to bring help."

  "Now we're talking!" The old man grinned, patting the baron on the shoulder. "To keep up appearances, you will disguise your conquest as helping out your ally in trouble. You do have your smart moments, Maegar. Don't let them go to waste."

  "Of course not. I can't wait to go and piss on my honour and General Darlac's legacy."

  "You mean, her legacy of failure or outright refusal to act in Varnhold's best interests because of some foggy-eyed paladin ideals? Oh, Maegar. It's high time you grew up and learnt to keep the ruler separate from the man. Keep Darlac in your heart, take solace in the sweet memories you two made together, but please don't let all that stop you from doing what needs to be done. Jamandi practically gave you free rein to step in. Only an idiot would pass that up."

  Kjerdi took a handful of raisins out of her pouch, and started to munch away on them, one by one, unwilling to take part in the conversation.

  "Jamandi asked me to check on Baroness Guelder," said the baron. "In what world is that a free pass to invade Nightvale?"

  "She must have realised that a union between Varnhold and Nightvale would give her a stronger ally than two separate mini-states. We have the military, they have the resources. I mean, they will, once that crazy druid woman is out of the way and the swamps can be drained for more arable land. Listen to me, just this once, and thank me later."

  Baron Varn sought in vain for a snide retort. For a while, he listened to Willas Gunderson's quill scratching the paper.

  "Willas?"

  "Yes, Your Grace?"

  "Let me see those minutes."

  The Chronicler obeyed. The baron skimmed through the last page, then he ripped it out, crumbled it, and tossed it into a burning brazier.

  "What the hell got into you, man?" he shouted into the Chronicler's face. "You were not supposed to record this conversation! Let me dictate. The Baron of Varnhold graciously heeds the silent cry for help coming from Nightvale..."

  Cephal couldn't stop himself from grinning. He even removed his unlit pipe from his mouth to grin better.

  "...and decides to lead an adventuring party to the neighbouring country to assess the situation there."

  Now the wizard buried his face in his palms. Shaking his head in disbelief, he started to fill his pipe, there in the throne room.

  "Get ready, old friend," said the baron. "Willas, alert Tehara, Gekkor and the Bruiser. Kjerdi, you will be in charge while I'm away."

  "Great," grumbled the wizard. "Baron Maegar Varn, Lord of Varnhold and Dunsward, marches forth to get another squad of Varnlings killed for nothing, instead of making his country great. Write a novel from this, Willas, and earn a cartload of gold with it. I'm off to get my scrolls."

  "Won't you stay for the rest of the audience?" asked Kjerdi through a mouthful of raisins. "I can hear there's a very impatient petitioner outside."

  Cephal focused on the voices seeping through the door, and raised a hand. Suddenly, everyone heard it, all loud and clear.

  Martyn, please! His Grace will want to hear this!

  "It's Faeli," stated the baron. Then he called out unceremoniously: "Martyn! Let her in!"

  The old wizard rolled his eyes in disapproval.

  "Will you ever unlearn those lowly manners, Maegar? You're not in a tavern, for Hell's sake!"

  By the time he finished grumbling, the buxom, dark-skinned druid girl was already making her way towards the throne, her dreadlocks bouncing about her shoulders. Willas buried his nose deep in the minutes, not looking up. Did these two have a history?

  Faeli, the barony's environmental advisor and rookery keeper, had been tasked with doing a sweep around the source of the Gudrin in search of invasive plantlife from the First World, as Baroness Guelder had requested. If she was this thrilled, that could only mean she had results. Well, either that or she'd discovered a new subspecies of grasshopper or whatnot, completely unrelated to anything of importance.

  "What news do you bring, Faeli?"

  "Your Grace, you won't believe it!" she explained, her hands fluttering in enthusiasm. "Me and my squad found not one but two caves that seem to hide passageways to the First World. Portals, to be specific. And also those iridescent plants that Baroness Guelder mentioned in her letter."

  Baron Varn jumped up from his throne.

  "Where?"

  "One is near the confluence of the Kiravoy and the Red Kiravoy, at the place called Crooked Teeth. The other one is near the Silverstep border, halfway between the Kiravoy and the Gudrin, known as the Rotten Cave."

  Hell, those names... His lands were all but riddled with creepy toponyms. Crooked Teeth, Rotten Cave, City of Hollow Eyes, Blood Furrows, Shivering Glade... No wonder that the likes of Willas Gunderson were attracted to them like flies to a carcass. In his worst moments, the baron felt that his own name, given to the land and the capital and its defenders, did precious little to keep the looming darkness at bay.

  He slapped his palms on his thighs, reaching a decision.

  "Right. Change of plan. The adventuring team, consisting of Tehara, Gekkor, the Bruiser, the Lord Regent and myself, will be heading out to the Crooked Teeth as early as this afternoon. Willas, you go get me the three soldiers I mentioned, as well as two boats and packed rations for three days. Faeli, you return to the Rotten Cave with your squad, explore it, and wait there for my further instructions. Dismissed."

  "Yes, sir!"

  Faeli made an about-face and left the throne room. Willas, who had failed to pick up any military manners in the last nine or so months, stayed and looked at the baron with big, sad puppy eyes.

  "How about me?" he asked in a desperate voice.

  "You stay with Kjerdi in case she needs you to run some errands. Gods willing, we'll return with General Darlac and a glorious story of a daring rescue that I'll share with you over a mug of ale, so that you can include it in the chronicles. Off with you!"

  Maegar felt a little bad about leaving Willas at home. On the other hand, even though the Chronicler had proved himself useful in the previous rescue attempt, it would be tactless to expose Darlac to his hateful presence in the vulnerable moments of reunion. If there would be any.

  Once again, Cephal waited until the Chronicler's footfalls faded completely. Only then did he lash out.

  "So you're serious about this fool's errand, Maegar. Fine, you don't want to invade Nightvale, because your honour is more important than the future of your land. But to embark upon an expedition into the First World instead? Do you even know what the First World is? As its name suggests, another world. How do you intend to go about searching for your precious needle in that planet-sized haystack? Cross the portal and initiate a Sending to Marquise Incontinentia, just in case she's having a helpful and coherent day? Or just shout Darlac's name into the four winds, waiting for her to shout back? And if you can't find her in a day, or a week, or a month, when will you admit defeat and return to finally rule your bloody country, as you're supposed to do?"

  Of course, Cephal was right. The reliable voice of cold reason, unerringly popping the bubbles of Maegar's imagination. But still...

  "We have to start somewhere, Cephal," said the baron softly. "After I don't know how long –"

  "Six weeks," grunted Kjerdi, opening a pouch full of walnut kernels.

  Desna help me. That's an awful lot of time wasted.

  "After six weeks," he continued, barely keeping his voice from breaking, "now I can finally take the first step. And as things are, I can't figure out the rest until that first step is taken. Will you support me in this fool's errand?"

  Cephal sucked hard on his pipe, and emitted a cloud of smoke from all his orifices.

  "Damn you, Maegar. You know I will. Someone has to keep you from acting full cretin."

  "That's the spirit, lads," grinned Kjerdi. "Go and bring our Darlac back. I'll run the place until you return."

  The baron shook their hands in gratitude, certain that he was doing the right thing, but much less certain that he would be able to pull it off. Suddenly, he realised how sloppy he had been in organising religious life in Varnhold. He could really use a shrine of Desna in the capital, in case his heartfelt prayers would not be enough to obtain that much-needed blessing of luck from the goddess. If this didn't work out... Well, he was thankful to Cephal that he'd never offered to get help from his deity. There were moments when signing a contract with the Archfiend about General Darlac's return seemed an all too tempting option.

  Gods, how she would hate him for that.