Long after Erithnis’ decline, as new nations rewrote the borders of the lands that had been conquered generations before, at the dawning of the third Age of Enchantment, the Duke of Diwydiant could be said to be the most powerful man in the kingdom of Cyllid, more so even than the King.

Diwydiant was the most prosperous duchy in the nation. It was there, as I’m sure most of my listeners will already know, that the mass manufacture of talismans was pioneered; the flamelock musket and the sparklock pistol being two particularly well-known designs from the period. This alone would have made the Duke a wealthy and powerful man, but the economy of his lands was further bolstered by the presence on its shoreline of Borthladd, and by - hmm?

Yes, Borthladd was a coastal port then, in addition to the role as major riverport it still fills today. Silt built up on the estuary until the harbour itself was so far from the city that a smaller town, Dociau, was built and formed around it. But, as I was about to say, there was a third cause for Diwydiant’s wealth.

For ten years in every hundred, the gateway to Twlwyth Teg opens, and bold adventurers therefore base themselves in the Duchy to plumb its depths. As well as the value of the treasures they sell on, most adventurers are poor at money management, and so whatever rewards they earn tend to stay local, spent at the smith’s or the talismonger’s or the wizard’s tower or, of course, the brothels and taverns.

When the gateway first opened, three years after the rise to power of Princess Trahaus and the commonly-agreed beginning of the third Age of Enchantment, there were many parties of adventurers already waiting. The tale I have in mind to tell you concerns Tarian Shieldmaiden, priest-paladin of Warchodaeth, goddess of protection, and Dewin, Wizardess of the Eighth Tower.

They went into the gateway accompanied by Torri Pwrs, noted as one of the most trustworthy thieves in the kingdom, Dewin the wizardess, and Llychlyn Wyr, a fierce fighter from a homeland across the sea. They made the crossing to Twlwyth Teg, one of the first groups to do so, and while neither ever told what happened, only Dewin of the Eighth Tower and Tarian Shieldmaiden returned.

This being midsummer, the Ducal Court were in residence in Borthladd, which is the city closest to the gateway. The two made their way to town, where Tarian insisted they present themselves at court, intending to beg alms on behalf of those unfortunates in her goddess’ protection.

That afternoon, Tarian took the steel back-and-breast she wore over her leather surcoat and breeches and buffed it with a wire wool brush until she could see her reflection in it clearly, and the same for the greaves protecting her thighs and the vambraces set over her arms. She tied her blessed sword to its scabbard respectfully with a peace knot, and she brushed and teased out the tangles and knots from her long raven hair, before scraping it back and tying it once again into the long braid beloved of her order.

Tarian did not care herself for recognition, but she knew that appearing as a pauper knight would not hold the attention of the Duke of Diwydiant.

Dewin made no such preparations, remaining in the loose blue robes of her Order, her red hair kept relatively short for easier management at camp. When they presented themselves at court together, an onlooker would likely have assumed Tarian the wealthier of the two, when in fact any handful of the dozens of charms and talismans Dewin wore on stout leather thongs around her neck would have cost more to acquire than Tarian’s armour.

They were not received by the Duke but by one of his functionaries, the Duchy requiring enough attention that any new visitor was vetted first. What Tarian said is not recorded, but it is known that afterward they met with young Sir Swynol, the Duke’s son, who listened to their stories with rapt attention.

“Fascinating,” he said at the conclusion to one such tale. “But you have lost fully half of your party. Will you be taking time to recuperate?”

Dewin of the Eighth Tower snorted. “Pardon, my lord,” she said off Tarian’s remonstrative look - the paladin knowing full well how touchy many nobles could be about such things. “It’s just that, well, time is expensive.”

“But you’ve brought back such wonders…”

“Aye,” Tarian interjected. “And our contract with our fallen friends entrusts their share to be delivered to their families. Llychlyn’s brother contests the chieftainship of his tribe, and the money he earned will help. Torri’s wife still raises their children.

“That accounts for some. I must tithe some of my own share to the templar order to which I belong, the Silver Shield, and Dewin’s Order requires dues of her. You would be surprised how little time a successful adventure buys us before we would need to set out again.

Sir Swynol rubbed his short, neatly trimmed beard thoughtfully. “If you do intend to set out again soon,” he said, “we may be able to make use of you. Call on me again tomorrow, at lunch, and we will discuss matters.”

*

A religious temple and a mystic order are some protection from the whims of the nobility, but it is rarely considered good form to snub them outright all the same. Tarian and Dewin returned to the court the next day, for lunch, where they met with Sir Swynol and Consuriwr, the court wizard, who Dewin disliked on sight; rather than the robes of his order he was neatly turned out in tights, breeches, and a decorative jerkin, and while the jerkin bore the blazon of his order, it was obvious that he and she had different philosophies of magic.

This they confirmed before the first course, a lightly spiced soup of game, was complete; once Dewin had graduated her apprenticeship she had set out to adventure and had developed her skills in that way, building what she called ‘practical talents’, while Consuriwr had continued to develop as a mage through studies. It took much of Tarian’s diplomacy to keep things calm.

Sir Swynol paid the matter no heed, and when the roasted haunch of venison was brought fourth for the second course, he turned to the matter which interested him. “I should like to hire you both for a new venture,” he said. “I should stress that it is me hiring you. Not my father, and not the Duchy. Ah… unofficial business.”

Tarian’s eyes met Dewin’s for a moment. There was clearly something underhanded about this, but potentially only in a legal manner. Not for the first time, Tarian wished she had the facility the goddess had given some in her order for detecting lies and mistruths; was he scheming for himself, which would be despicable, or for his father the Duke and ultimately the prosperous subjects of the Duchy, which would be commendable?

“Tell us more,” she said, to buy some time.

“My grandfather left me a personal bequest,” Swynol said, “That is, it was left directly to me, not passed on by my father’s decision. It was a collection he was very proud of, but it wasn’t part of the ducal estate.

“I found late last year that it had been taken from me. I wanted to show Consuriwr one of them, after it came up in conversation, and… Anyway.” He waved a hand dismissively. “The point is that it has been stolen, and I believe I know who by.

“They are very much of my family, and so if they were to vanish from his own collection, he can say nothing about it - so long as nothing else is taken.” Swynol fixed both of them with a firm eye, looking between the two to make sure they understood him on this point. “You understand that taking care over this immediately disqualifies many bands of adventurers, who I could not trust.”

Tarian nodded.

“Can I ask what they are?” Dewin put in. “You mentioned wanting to show them to the learned mage, here.” She nodded to Consuriwr, not particularly respectfully. “I must assume they have magical properties.”

“So the stories have it,” Swynol said, “and with their theft I consider these tales confirmed. In truth I’d hoped Consuriwr would confirm them for me.

“They passed into my hands just three years ago, and I did not have time to attend to them for a while - I know it may not seem like it, but the day of a Duke’s heir is busy with a surprising number of responsibilities.” He smiled over the food. “Which is one reason we don’t stint ourselves in reward.”

Tarian inclined her head stiffly, understanding but, in truth, not approving. “What are these tales, then?”

“My grandfather was known, in his youth, as a feared hunter of bandits. Indeed, I believe your own order, the Silver Shield, worked closely with him for some time,” Swynol answered. “He had a particularly close inner cadre who worked in his support.”

“The story goes that each of them wore the same torc around their neck.” He gestured at the base of the throat and the tops of the shoulderblades, where the flat disc-rim shape of the torc would rest. “This much I can say is true, for the torcs passed into my hands on his passing. But the stories say that they were enchanted, relics from the glory days of Erithnis, and that they brought the cadre closer together, helping them to act as one.

“Diwydiant is in a very different position today to the days of my grandfather’s youth. If they truly have such power, they should be put into service - but likely in a different way, to suit our changed state.” He shrugged. “Which being the case, I do not yet know how I will use them if it turns out they are enchanted. But they are mine by right, not Baron Meddwyn’s.”

Tarian and Dewin looked at each other again in silence, and to an outsider they could barely even be said to speak; but years of long experience and sisterhood together meant that messages passed between the two in any case. “We’ll undertake your case, Sir Swynol,” Tarian said.

“For a reasonable fee,” Dewin added.

*

It hadn’t been a difficult job, Tarian reflected as they rode back toward the Duke’s summer home. The torcs clanked in a sturdy fabric bag buckled to her saddle. From time to time, even riding at a measured pace, one of them would brush against the back of her thigh; Tarian was certain there was magic to them.

Her skin tingled from the countless little contacts with an enchanted item, but it was a very pleasant tingling so she’d taken no steps against it.

“It’s good pay coming to us,” Tarian said at last, breaking a silence that had stretched the two hours since breakfast that morning. Dewin was evidently still not excited to speak to Consuriwr, the rivalry between different paths to power being an age-old tradition among mages.

“It is that,” Dewin allowed. “For the work we did, in any case.”

“For the time it took,” Tarian said. “If he has more tasks that need doing, I might be minded to listen.”

“Mmm,” Dewin answered. Her eyes were already elsewhere.

They bathed before visiting the court, but there was no need this time for Tarian to polish her breastplate; it still gleamed well enough from the attention she’d given it just a few short days ago. They were immediately admitted and taken through to a drawing room, the walls of which were lined with shelves, the shelves filled almost completely with books. More books than Tarian had seen in a single room before, though Dewin had certainly seen larger collections.

Sir Swynol received them alone at first, smiling warmly, taking the torcs one by one from the bag and inspecting them closely. Taking stock. “Did you encounter Meddwyn?” he asked, and Tarian shook her head.

“Truth be told,” she said, “his guard are slovenly. Not watchful at all. I am sure at least one was shirking patrol, and should otherwise have caught us.”

“If they truly do what you told us,” Dewin said, “that’s probably why he wanted them.”

Swynol nodded thoughtfully. “It’s good to know,” he says, “although less good to know our neighbour is not paying attention to his domain.”

“I would have thought that an advantage for you,” Tarian said.

“It is,” Swynol admitted. “Right up until it isn’t any longer. Which is usually because of internal frustration or external invasion.”

He shrugged and touched a bell; to the liveried servant who appeared almost immediately, he said simply “Ask Consuriwr to attend me here.” Once the door was closed behind the servant he turned back to the adventuresses and continued, “Of course, that is no concern of yours, and it is nothing where I can assist him before called upon without dealing him an insult. I would rather not.”

Tarian nodded politely. Sir Swynol clearly wished for something else, but like many nobles he took a long time to say what he wanted.

Consuriwr, once he arrived, confirmed that the torcs bore an enchantment. “They must,” he said, “I can feel the power pouring off them. It will take some time for me to learn more.” He turned to face Dewin. “What did your field assessment tell you?”

Tarian tensed, but Dewin had frozen. “I…”

Swynol chuckled. “Consuriwr has told me many times that adventuring mages tend to be better ad understanding artefacts, at least on the basics,” he said. “Comes of dealing with cursed items and the like. Do such things really exist?”

Dewin nodded guardedly.

“It seems like a waste of resources.”

“All traps do,” Dewin said, “before you wonder what the value of a particular capture or sabotage might be. Once you know that, you know how expensive your trap can be, and still turn a profit.”

Consuriwr made a face at that, and Tarian decided to support her friend. “Economics matter most to those of us not on a stipend,” she said, gently but firmly.

Consuriwr looked thoughtful, at least.

“There definitely seems to be some sort of enchantment of the mind to it,” Dewin said guardedly. “They’re linked in some way. I wouldn’t want to speculate further without a chance to really examine them.”

“Perhaps next time you call on us,” Swynol interjected, “Consuriwr can present his findings.”

He was the only person who didn’t seem startled by that. Instead he smiled sunnily, those dark blue eyes catching the light too, as he offered Tarain his hand. “You’ve done me a service,” he said. “As well as paying you for it, I hope you will stop by from time to time. We may have more jobs for you, but in any case it suits me well to hear what is happening in my father’s land.”

Tarain shook his hand as he continued, “You will both see these events from a perspective his guards can’t bring us.”

*

Even after channelling her goddess’ power to her wounds, closing them and mending her flesh, Tarian still ached, in no small part due to the iron chains that bound her.

The intention had been to purge a nest of ogres that had moved into one of the duchy’s old mines. She and Dewin had set off with confidence, but the fight had pushed them beyond their endurance. Finally, standing her ground against the last few, marked with cuts that would soon be more scars in her collection, she had told Dewin to fall back. There was no sense in both of them falling.

She had expected death. Instead unconsciousness had taken her and been replaced in turn with iron bonds; a thick collar around her neck with heavy chains running down from it to manacles at her wrists, and then further along to her feet.

She would learn later that a blacksmith had taken coin to restrain her from the same purse as the one that had paid the ogres to fight her. A local merchant with a plan, looking to control the newer mines in the area, and a local sheriff in his pocket too, who now had her in one of his cells.

It had been two days, some of which she had spent in prayer, and her room was lit only by the silver light of the moon when she heard a soft metal scraping by the cell door.

She lay exactly as she was - any movement would be announced by the chains around her, and it might pay for her to seem asleep when whatever was about to happen actually began. With an audible clack the lock was sprung and the door was eased open, painfully slowly, too slow for the hinges to creak.

A figure crept in, dressed all in black. Tarian almost surged up, figuring that they must have a key and her manacles could also be weapons, but something nagging at the back of her mind made her hesitate. Something she’d seen?

The figure stole closer, and in the pale light of the moon Tarian recognised him. He was wearing the most subdued outfit she’d ever seen him in, but there were still a few glittering stones attached to the black velvet tunic.

Sir Swynol.

*

“Well, Dewin rode straight for the house,” Swynol was saying through the door. “Good thing we hadn’t quite gone inland for the winter, really. She had a tremendous fuss with the guard, what with Father making ready to travel, but fortunately she raised enough commotion to catch my attention.

“We pieced it together alright from our gossip and what Dewin knew, and Father was about to give orders to send in the militia, but I stopped him.”

The bathtub was doing wonderful things for her aches, and Tarian had largely been lying soaking, but she had just turned her attention to the tangles in her hair when she heard this. “You did?” she asked. “Why?”

“Mining villages have lots of places to dispose of evidence,” he answered. “Didn’t want to think about you dropped down a mineshaft and lost forever.”

She smiled ruefully. “Nor do I, if it comes to that.”

“So Dewin and I went up as soon as we had night to cover us and extracted you. Father’s gone on south, and I shall be following on soon, though, so the militia aren’t the solution. I had another I thought you might enjoy instead.”

“What?”

He walked into the room where she bathed, to her astonishment. But he was smiling that sunny smile, and he held a crystal decanter full of red wine in one hand with two silver goblets in the other, and Tarian found she wasn’t outraged as she perhaps should have been. “I sent a runner to the Silver Shield,” he said, “and told them where they could find a local functionary who’d dared lay their hands on one of their captains.”

There was, Tarian discerned, a glint of hardness under that sunny smile. She decided she liked it. She watched him pour two goblets, then carry them across and offer one to her, and she accepted, easing herself back in the tub and raising her goblet to him, conscious she was putting herself more fully on display through the suds. “An excellent solution,” she said.

“Thank you,” he smiled. “I may also have made a donation to their coffers in your name.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Well, it’s good to have friends. But it’s excellent for those friends to be more highly placed, and this should send the right kind of signal.”

There were all manner of signals being sent here. She sipped at the wine, which was exquisite, far beyond what she and Dewin used on the road to wash down a typical inn stew, and inhaled the beautiful lavender-scented oils Swynol had added to her bathwater.

Her eyelids fluttered briefly as she did so. She felt a core of warmth at her centre, a sensation of contentment she had not encountered before.

His presence in the room was a signal. Her lack of outrage was a signal. His pushing for her within her Order, too, was likely a signal. Nobles didn’t do things for nothing.

She breathed in again, her scalp tingling, and she reached out a free hand toward him, smiling playfully.

An eyebrow raised wryly, Swynol took her hand, but he wasn’t prepared for her sudden tug, and she was in any case significantly stronger than him, now that her body was starting to properly recover from its aches. He splashed forward into the bath, fully-clothed, and came rest sprawled against her bare chest.

Tarian smirked. “I thought I should give you my thanks,” she said. She took his tunic in her hands and ripped it open.

It had been a long while since the last - and only - time she had taken a man. She did not intend to do so again except on her own terms.

Their lips met. His hand found her breast. In answer, hers turned aside his codpiece and took his cock in hand. The tub was too small for this; she put her other hand under his shoulder, transferred her grip from his hardening to a buttock, and stood effortlessly, the water sluicing off them both as she rose and stepped out of the tub, carrying him backwards into the bedroom.

There was no need to look back, and her attention was in any case on the man in her arms, the delightful look of excitement mingled with uncertainty on his face, and so she did not notice the faint golden shimmer on the surface of the water, and had no reason to ask him about the lavender salts he had added to her bath.

His expression fascinated her. Clearly he’d wanted to bed her, but he hadn’t expected what he actually got; had perhaps assumed he’d be the one in charge. She let him fall backward onto the bed and crawled up on top of him, his cock still standing out beside the displaced codpiece. Her eyes lit as she stared into those dark blue eyes of his and she licked her lips. “I am grateful, you know,” she said, and bent her head to his neck, where her nuzzle turned into a bite, some primal instinct taking her over.

She took one of his wrists in each and and pinned them against the satin sheets just above his head, and she lowered herself onto him, her nipples brushing against his chest hair, and she rode him as she would a stallion; in control at all times, setting the pace, and with no fear she would be thrown.

*

“What was in that stuff, Consuriwr?”

“What happened?”

“I most certainly will not tell you that!”

“Hah! It worked, then.”

“Worked? I thought it was just to heal her!”

“Oh, it will have done that too. That part wasn’t the experiment.”

“Experiment?”

“Mm. You said, the last time they’d been here, that you’d like to build some loyalty from them.”

“Wh - I was doing that. I just bought her higher rank in her order.”

“And now we have two ties on her loyalty,” the mage said coolly. “Although this one will need repeating, if you want to benefit from it?”

There was a long moment’s silence. The mage’s voice was amused when he said “I see you do. Well, you can thank those torcs of yours. I’ve managed to untangle several of the spells used in them, and this is one.”

“Hm. Won’t her friend notice? They say adventuring mages learn to maintain that sense at all times…”

“I see you’re warming to the idea.”

“Well. I have some things I’d like to change. But she’s a stunning woman when you get that armour out of the way, and we already knew they were both very capable. So it’s tempting. The detente with Vaktmadur can’t last forever.”

“And besides, you still don’t want to marry that princess?”

“Don’t make light of this, Consuriwr. I’m having to catch up to a plan you’ve apparently had in process for some time.”

“I don’t have a solution for the wizardess, not yet. I’m hoping an opportunity will present itself if you continue to draw her out.”

“Hm. Consuriwr?”

“Yes, my lord?”

“Thank you for remembering protocol at least. But what I really want you to remember is, if you do something like this again, you tell me first or there will be consequences.”

“...I’ll bear that in mind.”

*

Contrary to Consuriwr’s fears, any enchantment on Tarian’s body was not immediately visible to Dewin, for the simple reason that the blessing her goddess had bestowed on her meant that she had never looked exactly normal to those extra senses in all the time Dewin had known her.

All the same, as soon as their next ride out toward the gateway, Dewin did find herself wondering at her friend.

They had always stayed at coaching inns on their rides. Everyone did. But they had slept in the public rooms, where it cost only pennies to lay down and sleep, and they had done so with one of them awake for hours at a time, in case there should be any trouble, tracking turns on watch.

The life of an adventurer was an expensive one. Dewin and Tarian stayed frugal because their funding to their people was why they did what they did. Now Tarian was booking private rooms for them both, and more startling, she was paying extra for better drinks.

It wasn’t at all odd - with Sir Swynol underwriting some of their work, they were earning more - and yet it was entirely odd. Tarian had never shown any sign of this before; to see her change her mind on many things at once was startling.

“What’s got into you?” Dewin asked, her tone light, making her own concerns a joke. “Rich boy turned your head?”

“He came out to save me,” Tarian answered. “After you went to him. I was more surprised by that, afterwards.”

Dewin shrugged. “It had to be someone with authority, and I had to be able to reach them quickly, and they had to act with all haste. He was the only choice I had.”

Tarian considered her goblet of wine for a moment, then took a sip. “He hasn’t turned my head,” she said.

“But?”

“Didn’t you enjoy the lunches they hosted for us?”

“The food and drink were fine, aye,” Dewin conceded. “The company I’m a lot less enamoured with.”

Tarian smiled. “I’ll grant you that. I thought for a moment he was going to unbend to you last time, but no.”

“He thinks he’s my superior because more of his knowledge is old knowledge, from books.”

“Whereas you’re superior to him.”

“Obviously.” They both allowed themselves smiles at that, but she knew her friend believed it all the same. Sometimes it was easiest to make a joke of the things you truly believed. It bought indulgence in it all for you.

Tarian turned her attention back to the wine. “We aren’t his, you know.”

“Obviously not.”

“I don’t think he’d have the work to keep us busy,” she said, “and I don’t know that his purse strings would stretch any further than we can make ourselves useful. Not while he remains the heir.”

Dewin nodded again.

“There is something about him which does bother me,” Tarian said. She watched for a moment, holding her peace, as her friend lifted her own goblet to her lips. “I’m still not sure why I took him to bed.”

The resultant spray of wine described a beautiful arc through the air which was quickly mimicked, if invertedly, by Tarian’s grin. That one had shocked her friend.

“Tarian!”

“He intended to seduce me,” she defended herself, “and he’s personable enough. So I thought, why not?”

She didn’t mention that what bothered her, in hindsight, was that very impulse. It wasn’t like her; in point of fact, after her first tryst, she had sworn off romance. Dewin, she’d always thought, would leave more than enough broken hearts for both of them.

It occurred to her only in that moment that Dewin was unlikely to do that so long as she continued to favour the loose, baggy robes she wore.

Tarian had seen her while making camp in the wild, while changing her robes after being caught in a downpour, and a dozen other circumstances that made her a good judge of her friend’s figure. She knew the hips were accompanied by strong, shapely thighs; that her bosom was soft and welcoming; that her buttocks, honed by years of daily activity and exercise, were pert, muscular, and beautifully curved.

“So you mean, he did seduce you.”

“No,” Tarian answered. “He may have wanted it, but it was my decision. I didn’t crumble and give in to his advances. As a matter of fact, I may have surprised him.” Her smile became a faraway one as she reminisced. “I think he’s accustomed to taking charge.”

Dewin’s expression slowly settled into a smile. “Well, well, well. I didn’t take you as planning to have fun before your Order insisted your value was in training new recruits.”

“I enjoy myself often,” Tarian retorted, stung. “More than you, in any case.”

“Almost anyone else could fairly say that,” came the answer. “I’m not interested in having fun. There’s too much for me to learn and master, and that’s what I want to do with my time. But you - you never enjoy yourself.”

“The views we get as we travel are spectacular,” Tarian protested.

“That’s not what anyone else means, Tarian,” Dewin said, “And I don’t think it’s your true greatest pleasure, either. But you don’t like admitting you take pride in achievement, do you?”

There was too much affection in their tones for any listener to think they intended to provoke one another, Tarian reflected, and yet she had still hoped to see Dewin think of her differently, and was sure Dewin wanted her to acknowledge her own pride.

Tarian did not like to think about pride. She was glad to have risen in renown with the Silver Shields, was happy that such a capable group of women reckoned her one of their best. That wasn’t pride to her. It all made perfect sense, after all.

She therefore did not dignify Dewin’s question with a response. “We are a little better paid than we were,” she said. “It’s time we indulged ourselves a little. That’s all.”

“This from the woman who buys all the dwarfbread a town has.”

“They’re good trail rations! They never stale.”

“Tarian, the best of them have no taste. What makes the others worse is having that flavour.”

Tarian snorted. Now, she decided, was not the time to mention that she had privately decided to abandon dwarfbread in favour of other foods when travelling in future. It would likely invite further mockery of her softening.

That night, as she slept, while the room was silver in the moonlight, her hair seemed to glimmer gold.