The following manuscript was discovered in a small chest filled with paperwork and other detritus of an officer’s life after the passing of General Cynhesach, great-great-great grandson in the male line of Duke Swynol of Diwydiant. It is written in a different hand to the other papers, and was folded around a signet ring bearing the sigil of the goddess Warchodaeth, with a stylisation that suggests it to have been struck around the time that Swynol’s son Ffynnon became King of Cyllid, now some two hundred and seven years ago.

It is true that Tarian Shieldmaiden, Duke Swynol’s wife, had been a Knight-Captain of the Silver Shield Paladinate when they were married, and that she later rose to Knight-Commander of the order. It is true that Consuriwr was Swynol’s favoured court wizard, and that his assistant, Dewin of the Eighth Tower, had been an adventurer before coming to work with him. 

This much is witnessed in many accounts of the time, in particular concerning the conflict between the kingdom of Cyllid and the neighbouring realm of Vaktmadur, in which intermittent war Swynol earned the nickname ‘Shadow Lord’ for his prowess in battle and influence over his King, influence far beyond the other nobles of the time.

Certain of the events in this manuscript, in particular the restructuring of the Silver Shield Paladinate into an instrument of the Cyllidi Army, and the notable change in domain undergone by followers of Warchodaeth, are also verifiable historical fact.

However, we cannot confirm with any certainty the specific assertions in this manuscript, which must be added to the pile of other tales concerning the beginning of what is now confirmed to be the present Age of Entrancement, and concerning Swynol and Tarian specifically

We have made the decision to publish this account more widely nonetheless, given the recent resurgence of trouble on the border with Vaktmadur, as if the events set down herein are a truthful account of what happened, we may at least understand the substance of certain allegations that have persisted for the past two centuries.

*

It’s easy to think of the forest on one side of Rhaedr Coch, primary seat of the Silver Shield, and the sheer cliff and waterfall descending onto a fertile plain of a hundred thousand acres, and picture the fortress as being deeply inland. In point of fact port cities on the coastline shared by Diwydiant and Vaktmadur can be reached inside a day’s ride. People of all persuasions can be found in the fortress, those called to serve a goddess of protection being called from across the wide reach of lost Erithnis.

Knight-Commander Meistari was one such. She had felt the calling of Warchodaeth early in life, and had followed that call as soon as she could sidestep the objections of her parents, crossing the ocean on a schooner otherwise laden down with silks. Over the four decades since, she had first passed the Order’s stringent admission test, sworn the oath, and distinguished herself in the field, before an error of judgement in a dalliance in the field had left her with child. Meistari had raised her girl herself, but doing so had kept her around Rhaedr Coch; new duties had come her way and to her delight she had excelled at them, which in due course led to her position as the head of the Silver Shields. 

Her daughter, Vordur, had the same charcoal hair, though she kept it boyishly close-cropped, honey-brown skin, and sharp, exotic eyes, and a handful of years ago, Vordur too had taken on the test of admission. 

Meistari had been proud, and that feeling had largely held through the years; the young Knight-Paladin was successful more often than not, skilled beyond most with her weapons, and determined. Her successes were many, though her failures had been messy and explosive, and if her mother had not been Knight-Commander, at least three separate moments of impulsive action would have seen her cast out from the Silver Shields.

That impulsive behaviour was the problem, and her concern was that her daughter did not appear to be outgrowing the issue, as everyone had expected. Impulse was tempered by experience, or ot it was supposed to be.

In Meistari’s opinion, there was a real chance that with her worst tendencies to act before thinking tamed, her daughter could be Knight-Commander one day; she herself was hale and healthy and could well live long enough for Vordur to be proven and ready to retire by then. Succession was not hereditary, but Meistari was barely fifty, her daughter just twenty-two; there was time for her to learn and to show the Shield that she had learned.

It was, accordingly, frustrating to have her seated there protesting defiantly against Meistari’s own decision.

“No,” she said, for the third time. She had loaded her voice with annoyance, a deliberate choice to signal that the discussion was closed.

“But Mother-”

“In this room, Knight-Paladin, I am your Knight-Commander, not your mother,” Meistari interrupted firmly. “Any other knight in this order would have understood by now that the decision has been made. I will not send a squadron to rescue Knight-Captain Tarian, and so I will not delegate you to lead it.” She tilted her head forward, fixing her daughter with a stare.

“The Order won’t rescue one of its own?”

Meistari sighed. “In the goddess’ name, Vordur, it wouldn’t be a rescue in the first place. She hasn’t been abducted, she’s got married, and to a young man with wealth, courage, and, if reports are to be believed, considerable personal charisma. What precisely do you think you’d be rescuing her from?”

Vordur’s jaw worked silently for a long moment. In time, however, she overcame her annoyance sufficiently to say “I confess I had not thought of that.” 

Before Meistari could say something to assuage her daughter’s feelings and dismiss the conversation, Vordur continued. “I just don’t believe it, though! I’ve known Tarian for years now, you had her train me even. She had next to no interest in men.”

“Sometimes that’s how it is,” her mother answered gently, rather than say you know my own story, child. “You have no interest in something, then the right example comes along and everything changes at once.”

“I hear that,” Vordur said. “But I don’t believe it.” She rose from her chair and stalked over to the open window, which gave onto a balcony overlooking the waterfall. “She’s not that kind of woman. You, for example, you had other men before my father. Tarian didn’t.”

Meistari flushed. She had been celibate since her daughter was born, unwilling to further complicate her life, and she had assumed that her daughter knew only that side of her. After a moment, more irritated still, she said “Let me guess. Keilon told you.”

Vordur grinned. “The Abbess never gossips,” she said, in a tone they both knew was an admission.

“I wish you wouldn’t call her that.”

“Why? She heads our priesthood.”

“Officially we have no priesthood, and this is not an abbey. Keilon has seniority, no more.”

“I’m not the only one who calls her the Abbess,” Vordur pursued. Meistari realised what was happening.

“Enough of this,” she said. “I have given you a ruling. I expect you to keep to it.”

Vordur sighed. “So be it,” she said. “But if it turns out she was kidnapped-”

“If it turns out she was kidnapped, I will take such steps as the situation requires. You will not act alone in this.” Her eyes met those of her daughter. “Take me seriously on this,” she said. “Tarian has wed a noble. Any action we take would carry political implications.”

Vordur sketched a half-bow and left. Meistari watched her go, trying to calculate what her next move might be.

*

Most directly, Vordur next went to the chapel to Warchodaeth at the rear of Rhaedr Coch, where she sought out her friend Nunna. The two had little in common, but both were the children of Silver Shields so they had grown up together, and shared jokes had forged a bond which was proving surprisingly durable.

It was often joked among the Shields that they were opposites, and while it was not really true there was, nonetheless, something to it. Vordur’s short frame was wiry, tough, muscular. Nunna had a tall, slender, dark-skinned beauty to her, and while she could swing a shortsword if need be her strength was not much greater than that act required. She had focused instead on strengthening the link the goddess was said to bestow on any member of the order, her faith and connection strong enough that the favour of Warchodaeth manifested through her, blessings taking real and mystical effect in her surroundings. 

Nunna was, accordingly, less likely to be seen on the battlefield in defence of the oppressed, and more likely to be found as hospices and other places of healing.

Both of them were frustrated by the way long hair interfered with the armour of their order, but they had solved that frustration in very different ways; Vordur sheared her own hair close in a ragged style which spoke to her complete disregard for social niceties, while Nunna bound hers in tight, long braids, decorated at the ends, which had the added effect of drawing her face back in a more severe style.

That afternoon Nunna was occupied in blessing a large collection of bundles of herbs and pots of unguent.

“Have you heard the news?” Vordur began. 

“What news?”

“Tarian Shieldmaiden, married,” Vordur exclaimed. Her voice held disdain for the very idea. Naturally it could not be true.

“Oh.” Nunna blinked several times, owlishly, her eyes magnified by the glass lenses she wore when concentrating. “Who to?”

“That’s what makes it doubly impossible,” Vordur said. “Sir Swynol.”

The name was at least somewhat familiar. “He’s given our Order several donations lately,” Nunna said.

“Yes. Trying to buy her-”

“Didn’t he rescue her?”

It amazed Vordur, sometimes, what Nunna remembered. “He did, once,” she admitted. “But I don’t think that’s relevant.”

“It seems to me,” Nunna said, “I might well fall for someone who cared enough to rescue me.” 

Vordur was about to snap back at her with a snarl when she noticed the ghost of a smile on her friend’s lips. Their eyes met, and Nunna giggled.

Vordur mustered her dignity. “You knew already, didn’t you?”

“Oh, yes. And naturally you were going to storm off to your mother about it.”

Vordur recalculated. “You heard about that?”

“Of course not. I predicted it, that’s all.”

“In that case,” she said sourly, “what else did you predict?”

“You wanted to go pull her out of there,” Nunna said cheerfully. “And your mother refused.”

“She has.” Vordur sighed. “But - you understand why I’m worried, right? This can’t be real.”

“I do think it’s fishy,” Nunna confessed. Both women had worked with Tarian enough to have a sense of her personality, and this didn’t match up to it. 

“We should do something about it.”

“We can’t,” Nunna reminded her, a gentle tone but slightly exasperated. Aware she was letting her friend down, but equally aware of the consequences of disobeying an edict of the Knight-Commander.

“Actually, we can,” Vordur said, and lowered her voice. “But it will take both of us together.”

“What, exactly, are you getting at?”

*

The next morning, the absences of Vordur and Nunna had both been noticed before first prayer, when they didn’t appear to support their seniors in their early duties. It was swiftly concluded that they had seen fit to defy Knight-Commander Meistari’s word, and there was debate that morning about whether or not she could keep her daughter from expulsion after this, and speculation about Nunna; whether she would have gone in her own right or under protest, and what would happen to her.

By mid-morning, Rhaedr Coch was in uproar. By that stage it had been discovered that the Vestments of the Avatar were missing.

These were now considered holy relics of the Silver Shield. They had been worn by one of Warchodaeth’s first champions, and at a critical moment in defence of a city against an orcish horde, that champion had opened up her soul to the power of Warchodaeth.

The goddess had entered her as an avatar. Ever after the trappings she had worn and carried in that time had been invested with some portion of the goddess’ power, of her soul. The Order kept them safe, for the most part, but perhaps once a century or thereabouts, some portion of them had been taken by a knight on a quest of the direst urgency. Almost never had all of it, the bracers, boots, breastplate, blade, and the bejewelled tiara, been taken at once.

The dispute over what to do raged for a further day. All agreed that something must be done, but the delicacy of the situation made it difficult for anyone to say with confidence that their own solution would be the best.

And all the while, Vordur and Nunna grew nearer to the capital of Diwydiant.

*

As an adventurer, Dewin had learned to sleep lightly and to rise early, when the first light of dawn changed the world around her.

Many who knew her at court - the bookish, provocatively-dressed redhead aide to Diwydiant’s court magician - found it hard to believe she had spent time on the road, facing down ogres and clashing with bandits, before then. Those habits, however, remained still, too deeply engrained for any level of enchantment to shift them.

In any event, she found them useful. She would wake before Consuriwr, her employer, lover, and Master; then, unless he had already told her of plans for her before they left their bed that morning, she would slip out from under the sheets, something she could do quietly and efficiently, without waking him. 

She would quickly wash, then attend to her hair (with a cantrip she had developed, it now took half the time it might for anyone else to draw it up above her head in a towering bouffant), dress, and begin laying out preparations in Consuriwr’s laboratory. 

These preparations changed day by day, driven heavily by the projects he was working on at any time - and Consuriwr’s interests were broad. Only a portion of his time was spent working on the direct needs of the duchy; the rest he used at leisure to research other opportunities. 

In consequence, Dewin’s own horizons had greatly broadened just in the year she had spent at court. Her instincts in casting were still the aggressive instincts of a warmage, which the Eighth Tower specialised in training, and she often highlighted ways his research could be useful on a battlefield or in the cramped confines of a subterranean stronghold.

However, Consuriwr’s attention was directed elsewhere and accordingly, more and more often, so was hers. She had embarked on a long learning experience.

That morning, there were no easy preparations to make for his research, no apparatus to set out and check. His latest investigations were thoroughly unlawful, dealing as they did with magic of entrancement.

Twice before, history had been substantially diverted into what the mages called Ages of Entrancement. At these times, magic developed to twist and manipulate the minds and souls of others had been used widely. Inevitably, when it was understood by more than a handful, these enchanters found their way into power. 

Later histories had largely glossed over the means by which hearts and minds had been swayed, except for those histories kept by the mages themselves. When you alerted people to the existence of entrancement magics, they started to get ideas of how it might be used. It was therefore down to the Orders, as they saw it, to police the situation.

Consuriwr, as a dedicated archive delver, had uncovered enough traces that he had pieced together a sorcery for the winning of hearts to a cause, and fragments of a second, which bridled another mind such that it could be steered by the caster. Dewin and her friend, confidante, and fellow adventurer, Tarian Shieldmaiden, had happened to cross Consuriwr’s path at exactly the wrong time - or the right time, as Dewin would now insist.

In joining him at his side, Dewin had set to work studying the thought-bridle - this being the enchantment under which she laboured. It was her breakthrough which had either reconstructed it or improved upon it in a new way - details of the original were scarce.

At present, Consuriwr’s fascination had fallen elsewhere. He had stumbled upon an old account dating from the time of the Silver Princess, the brief whirlwind of conquest which had become the foundation for the Erithnian Empire. Scraps of information suggested that Zar, the Princess’ husband, who history had set down as the only man who dared to love and tame her, had in fact used enchantment to ensnare her.

If so, it was in a format that neither of them now understood, and from what few indications they had unearthed - arch hints buried in correspondence of the time, likely from people who knew the what but not the how - it concerned emotion in some way.

That morning, Dewin settled down to read an apparently unrelated history, taking careful notes as she went.

She had sent out word saying she was looking for a copy some weeks earlier. A bookseller - one Dewin had sold many old manuscripts to, freshly unearthed, while she was an adventurer - had sent a courier with a copy just the day before.

It was a history of the Orange Robes, which she had ordered after noting that Zar had been one of the Order’s early sponsors. Their specialisation was in elementalist magic, specifically advancing fire magic to unusual mastery. It was said that a member of the Orange Robes could manipulate flames that could not even be seen, heating a sheet of metal enough to bend it by passing their hand along its surface.

*

Gaining access to the Capitol building was not difficult, even with the heavy cloak Vordur had wrapped around herself to conceal the Vestments. She and Nunna moved through the public areas of the building, watching, assessing. There was going to be an opportunity, Vordur was sure.

Nunna, always the more practical of the two, was the one who found a way to slip from public spaces into the corridors of power without being seen. There were guards aplenty in the Capitol. They just didn’t consider the Silver Shield a threat.

“I’ve actually secured us beds for the night, too,” Nunna said. “So we have some time to plan. We need to make contact with Tarian.”

“The husband’s the problem,” Vordur said. “Take care of him and the problem will resolve itself.”

“Take care of him and we collect a whole new set of problems,” Nunna retorted. Vordur made a noise that might have been agreement and might have been disinterest; Nunna looked at her friend in concern.

“Let’s at least find out how things stand,” she said.

“And how do you plan to do that? We’ve already heard the official story. I have no reason nor inclination to believe it.”

“Not everyone here will be peddling the official story,” Nunna said simply. “Why don’t you take a look at our exit options? I’ll be right back.”

Nunna’s path took her to the kitchens. In any noble home, even one which has become as much a place of political business as the main court of a duchy, the servants are the ones who know the truth underlying any false story, and the place where you are guaranteed to find servants outside the watchful eye of their betters.

She sat for a while, listening, without asking any questions, Experience had taught her that this was the best way to get real information. Barging in and immediately demanding answers made your intent clear; wait for some time and a topic nearby would emerge from conversation, and would then only take a little nudging.

In the meantime, she happily sampled one of the pastries being prepared for the court at lunch. It was as fine as anything she’d ever had the opportunity to eat, and delicately spiced in a way she hadn’t expected but was immediately delighted by.

She watched the others who drifted by, doubtless on similar errands - a beleaguered clerk in loose blouse and silken trousers, three scroll-cases under one arm, a young man in the tabard of the Duke’s own regiment, who Nunna estimated as a junior officer at most, another young man in the robes of the Green Order of wizardry - toom and wondered whether any others had interest in the wedding. The link between the Duke’s heir and the Silver Shields, she suspected, had to have set tongues wagging in his regiment’s mess, just speculating on the future.

To Nunna it was, of course, obvious that the Shields would retain their stateless organisation. It was her understanding that people who fought under a lord’s banner assumed everyone else wanted to. But why would she, when she could instead stand for the goddess Warchodaeth?

In due time, someone mentioned “the young wife,” as they bustled through, carrying a tray of delicacies, and Nunna took her opportunity. 

“Yes,” she said, “what news of her? I understand she holds no title.”

The cook nearest her, at work portioning sweetmeats into half-baked pie cases, gave her a grin, her eyes widening in a show of agreement. “No, she doesn’t,” she agreed. “And that’s why, plenty of us are saying, we know it must be true love. For the Duke can’t have been happy about it as a political match, and there was a good deal of time spent making sure the young master saw all the eligible womanflesh in the area for him to choose from.”

“A love match?” Nunna couldn’t help but be surprised by this. “I’d heard something of her,” she admitted, threading the needle between what she knew and what it was sensible to admit to knowing, “and didn’t think she’d consent to such a thing.”

This drew a laugh. “My lass,” the cook told her, “she was the one who decided on it.”

“What?” Nunna gasped. This latest revelation made no sense. She knew Tarian Shieldmaiden, and she wasn’t the type.

The cook told her about how, after some months of dalliance, she hard marched in, clad in a dress which had started a new courtly fashion, and all but claimed Swynol in front of them all. Nunna had been too stunned to ask follow-up questions, and had sat there in quiet after for some time before rising and sneaking away to find Vordur and catch her up on the tale.

Vordur looked at her for a long while in silence after herding. “This cannot be so,” she said at last. “It doesn’t tally with who she is. Not at all.”

Nunna nodded sympathetically. “Nothing does,” she said. “And yet it seems to have happened, all the same. Certainly the belief is that Tarian is eagerly attached to her husband.”

Vordur shook her head. “I will not accept it. Some bewitchment is upon her.”

“Is that possible?” Nunna asked. “And how would we prove it, if it were?”

“We don’t have to,” Vordur said. “We can break her of it by getting her away from its source and keeping her from it.”

At first Nunna found no answer for that. In time she said simply, “I do not see how we do that without provoking trouble.”

“Then we provoke trouble.”

*

In spite of Vordur’s intention, the opportunity to grab Tarian Shieldmaiden did not come for almost a week. She was seldom seen without being the heart of a large gathering.

Vordur stood on the periphery and glowered, her arms folded, for the first two days; then the representatives of the Silver Shield chasing her arrived in court, and she retired to their rooms, emerging rarely. 

She did not want to risk losing the Vestments; she saw in their power her greatest opportunity to do as she planned and free Tarian. To protect them, she felt the need to wear them at all times, and no disguise that was acceptable in court could perfectly conceal them.

Nunna wore a dress cut to just above the thigh, its arms bare, as had become a fashion at the court of Diwydiant. She wore her long braids coiled and pinned upon the crown of her head, and concealed her lips and jawline below a fine silk half-veil.

Examined closely, this wouldn’t fool any Silver Shield. But her silhouette was profoundly altered, such that she wouldn’t inspire any closer examination if glimpsed in the periphery of their vision, and the fashion was that of the court, such that only the colour of her skin set her aside from the others. Taken with the veil, Nunna expected she would be seen as an ambassador from another land - and she was entirely right.

She had time, therefore. Time to watch Tarian.

Nunna made a study of the woman. So often she seemed completely changed, except that a woman so utterly steeped in courtly politics had no right to those biceps, could not dedicate the time necessary to build muscle like that. 

Servant scuttlebutt had it that the bare-armed, leg-exposing fashion so common among the younger women of Diwydiant at present came from Tarian and her friend setting trends. Nunna could understand why; she was no great combatant, spent less time on battle drill than most Shields, and most days she was perhaps the woman whose arms were shown off to second best effect. Between the Shieldmaiden and the other ladies at court there was no contest.

The knight within the woman showed, too, just sometimes as she talked; in the way her head tilted when she felt a need to be watchful, as well as her eyes narrowing, or in how she adjusted her stance around those she didn’t like. Some of her enemies at court probably always entertained the quiet belief that Tarian would punch them if they pushed their agenda, whatever it might be, too far.

*

“There are two of them,” Swynol told Consuriwr. Technically, the two were having a private conversation, not to be overheard, and for that reason they were in the wizard’s study, a place nobody visited without business there.

In practice, their private conversations always included Dewin, who would sit quietly off to one side, her legs crossed, her back straight, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her chest pushed out to its best presentation.

“Sponsored by their Order?” the mage asked.

“I can’t imagine so,” Swynol said. “We received official representation, too, but simply to ask us about them. Honestly I might not have known they were here, otherwise.”

“No?”

“No.” He raised an eyebrow in amusement, “I’ll be making sport of Father’s spymaster about that, mark my word. In the meantime, though, what I can say with confidence is that something’s going on.”

Dewin politely cleared her throat, but did not offer her contribution until her superior mage’s raised eyebrow officially invited it. She was, Consuriwr thought fondly, better trained than that; she might test her limits and push the bounds of her authority in private, but in public she wouldn’t dream of upstaging him.

“I’ve seen her interact with the Order, at least lightly,” she said. “I cannot imagine they fully believe what’s happened, except for the evidence showing that it has. If they knew a new Age of Enchantment was upon us, I think they’d hit on the explanation immediately.”

“Mm,” Swynol said thoughtfully. “That probably explains what these two rogues are doing here. I imagine they’re a little more militant about it.”

“If my lord pleases,” Dewin offered, “this might be a fine time to carry out an experiment.”

Consuriwr looked across at her. “Your recent researches?”

“Yes, my lord. You have my notes.” Her head was bowed, and she would not meet his eyes. Consuriwr could picture how she would be later, an absolute menace, pushing him until he was forced to override her, to command her to bend herself over his desk so he could fuck her.

He could barely wait. “That I do. Can you do so safely?”

“I believe so, my lord.”

His gaze flicked across to Swynol. “Once you start down a road like this,” he remarked, “it seems circumstances will always lead you further along.”

“Which is you asking for unofficial permission,” Swynol acknowledged wryly, “since I can’t grant it officially. Alright, then. Do it sensibly, and subtly. The maximum deniability for whatever your plan may be, agreed?”

“Of course,” Consuriwr said.

Dewin bowed her head, accepting the instruction.

*

Nunna had been surprised when a young woman in a startlingly revealing costume sat down next to her and struck up a conversation. Her contact with Tarian Shieldmaiden, while highly influential on her conduct, had been brief and largely confined to the interior of Rhaedr Coch; she might have recognised Dewin if the mage had gone unchanged from her time as an adventurer, but of course she had not. 

The woman offered her an insider’s perspective on the court, seeming perfectly happy to gossip on any topic. She was surprisingly effusive in praise of the court magician, which surprised Nunna - from her perspective, this Consuriwr hadn’t even come up in discussion before a two-minute paean of praise - but otherwise seemed reasonably sensible about many things.

The detail she gave concerning the slow development of Tarian Shieldmaiden from warrior woman to courtly maiden - if not so much the maid - spoke to Nunna. It seemed to resonate with her from very early on. A spark of an idea became a strange heat. 

*

It was exhilarating, Dewin felt. So much of it was timing, but it was true; flames could be kindled in the thoughts of others.

“Knight-Captain Tarian - or Lady Tarian, as we should now call her,” she had said, and on the word ‘lady’ she had kindled a spark of excitement in the other woman’s head. “She sees the court as an extension of the battlefield, I think. A mental battle - a higher combat.” And again, a little nudge a bit of a push to build that flame higher.

Nunna’s breath had caught briefly in the back of her throat, and Dewin had been delighted by it. She’d previously assumed that the spell Consuriwr had caught her with had been motivated largely by a lust for her body and a jealousy common to study-mages against adventuring mages. Now, feeling this strange, heady euphoria, she could imagine that there were other impulses acting on him too as he pushed to find the right way past her occult wards.

“What do you mean by that?” Nunna asked. 

“In a battle, one strikes for the next moment, and for the tactical advantage,” Dewin said. “At court, one strives for a strategic triumph.” A little more magic, to build the woman’s enthusiasm for the idea. “You admire the Lady Tarian, don’t you?”

“I do,” Nunna admitted.

“Then you understand, surely, why she has drifted from the battlefield to something higher. Marriage gives her a platform.”

“I…” Nunna trailed off, but there was doubt enough in her voice even in that single syllable for Dewin to see she was wavering. She kindled again, digging into the heat of fire to give her next idea a push.

“Lady Tarian is the next development of Tarian Shieldmaiden,” Dewin purred. “She must be protected.”

Nunna looked back at her with belief burning in her eyes like coals. “Yes,” she agreed, her voice full of the fervent conviction of the drunk. Dewin could well understand how she felt; was, indeed, feeling something of it herself. 

For the first time she wondered if perhaps the fire she kindled matched to one in herself. Any Orange Robe who’d done this regularly would surely have had to invent safeties, wouldn’t they?

“Will your friend understand?” Dewin asked. It might be as simple as prevailing on this enspelled paladin to grant her introduction to her friend, and then carry them both along on the same flames of righteousness.

For the space of several heartbeats she hoped this would prove the case. In the end, though, Nunna exhaled, her shoulders slumping, and she said “No.” And with the word, Dewin could feel some of Nunna’s own fire of conviction ebb away.

She fanned the embers, breathed new life into the flame. With that, she rose and tiptoed away, her thoughts elsewhere.

She would have to be satisfied with that progress while she consulted on the next step. 

This other woman was going to be either a problem or an opportunity, Dewin thought. It would take work to tip her from one to the other.

She decided to consult Tarian on the problem. Her friend might well be able to offer her some strategic insight.

*

Nunna had begun worrying along the same lines as Dewin. Vordur’s determination to abduct the Lady Tarian had grown, if anything, over the time she had been denied. She paced about their room, muttering to herself, and asked Nunna every day whether she knew what the Lady Tarian intended the next day.

One fine day, Nunna reported (a little nervously, but unconfident in her ability to convincingly lie) that Swynol and the Lady Tarian would be riding out to hunt the next day. Vordur brightened immediately.

“That’s it,” she said. “That’s how we get her.”

“What do you mean?”

“They won’t have much in the way of guards, plus it’s a much clearer exit strategy. If we time it right, Tarian will even be on horseback.” Vordur’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “We ride up, bypass the guards. You grab Tarian’s reins and we can lead her off with us, and I’ll run her husband through.”

“You’ll - what?” Nunna spluttered. “Vordur-”

“No, it’s perfect,” she interrupted. “If allgoes as it should, she’ll be a widow and her ties to the duchy are gone. If not, his injuries will take tending to. Either way they’ll dal with that instead of giving chase to us.”

“I don’t think-”

“Nunna, you can’t let me down here.” Vordur had rarely sounded more passionate about anything.

Nunna looked back at her and sighed. Vordur smiled. “I knew you’d help,” she said, and leaned forward, hugging the other woman to her spontaneously.

*

The hunting party heard the sound of galloping hoofbeats as they neared the woods. Swynol, in great good humour, turned in his seat and beheld a warrior woman riding down on him, clad in the Vestments of the Avatar, sword drawn.

Another nobleman might have drawn his shortsword and attempted to defend himself on horseback. Swynol knew his own best martial skills lay in great agility and deftness with a knife; the best results he achieved in combat always came when the other party did not know fighting had begun, or thought he was somewhere he wasn’t. He rolled backward off his horse just ahead of a wild thrust with the sword of Warchodaeth, landing smoothly on his feet; looking up he read the surprise in his attacker’s eyes. Whatever mental script she’d had for the encounter, he’d already disrupted it.

That was surprisingly satisfying.

She screamed something in frustration and brought her horse about, looking to crowd him.

Difficult to wheel and charge at short range; regiments would go further out to build up momentum for the smash, but this woman had to prioritise harrying him, keeping him from breaking for the treeline. 

She made the maneouvre smoothly and confidently all the same, clearly a gifted rider. Her sword swept down, ready to cut upward in a slash that would carry all the momentum her steed could lend her. It wasn’t something he’d be able to block, even if he’d drawn his sword; he was going to have to rely on dodging it.

She bore down on him. He was aware there had been a second rider, but all of his attention had to be on the one he was facing directly. Whatever the other was doing would have to be something the rest of his hunting party solved.

One of them, instead, attempted to solve his problem. The characteristic whip of an arrow blew by him, over his head, and instead of bringing her blade up to hit him she brought it up instead in defence of her own body, batting the arrow aside - something that it staggered him she was able to do. 

All the same, she’d missed her opportunity to get him on that pass. She plunged on past him and skewered the guard whose shot had threatened her, a clear message sent; she wanted this between her and him.

Belatedly he reached for his shortsword, though he doubted he could hold his own against her. A mount gave speed and strength to a strike, and she’d made it clear she understood that.

“Go!” she shouted. He was too busy watching her pivot to risk tracking her own eyeline and figuring out who she was talking to, what she was saying. “Get to safety!”

As she bore down on him the third time and brought her sword down there was a brilliant flare of silver light, a loud clash as if her blade had struck steel, and the arc of her cut changed abruptly and violently from the impact. 

In a very real sense, it was a miracle. The shock on Vordur’s face was immediately visible, and she hesitated.

In that moment, another two of the party caught her and hauled her from her horse.

She was staring past Swynol, he realised. The look of hate on her face was not for him, but someone behind him. He turned and saw the other strange arrival.

“Have I seen you around court?” he offered, after a bewildered moment.

Tarian touched his arm. “You have, beloved. It’s alright.”

“It is?”

“Yes. Consuriwr and Dewin are dealing with it.”

His brows furrowed with thought for a moment. “Ah,” he said. “That… explains something, I hope?”

The other arrival bobbed a curtsey, and while Swynol could not guess it, she was wondering how difficult it would be to dye her hair the same gold as Tarian. Meanwhile, Tarian herself had already turned to the two men who were bringing the struggling warrior woman back to her feet. “Take her back to the capitol,” she said. “The court mage is expecting her.”

The woman spat defiance, and Tarian simply smiled. “It’s good to see you again, Vordur,” she said, “but it should have been under better circumstances. I have asked for you to be taught better manners.”

Vordur, if that was her name, glowered. “Something’s got into you,” she said. “But it won’t work on me. Torture me if you must but I won’t break. I’ll resist.”

“Torture you?” Tarian laughed. “I very much doubt that’s on the cards.”

She turned to the other woman as if dismissing Vordur. “As for you, Nunna, I hope you will hunt with us today. You must come back to Diwydiant afterwards; the Order is concerned, and we shall think on how to solve it.”

Swynol studied the expression in the younger woman’s eyes, and wondered whether he’d rather get an explanation from Consuriwr or find out what had happened afterwards.