“I don’t understand how you could possibly need four forks for one meal,” Raith complained, not for the first time, as Tolliver patiently went over their etiquette lessons for the upcoming party at Lady Greendawn’s estate.

  “One is for your salad, one is for dessert, and one is for your entrée,” the mage explained, unflappable as ever.

  “What about this one?” Raith asked, holding up a tiny two-pronged fork that looked more suited for a child’s toy than dining.

  To Tolliver’s surprise, Zinny had become his unexpected ally in these lessons. She perched on the edge of a chair, hands folded primly.

  “That’s for appetizers,” she said, her tone matching Tolliver’s. “So you’re not sticking your gross fingers all over the communal plate.”

  Raith groaned. He was never going to remember all this useless nonsense.

  He glanced at his brother. Nyhm looked as if he were in mild shock, staring blankly at the table as Tolliver droned on.

  Oh, how Raith wished they could be back on the road, caught up in a daring [Quest] or a tower climb…anything but this.

  The team had made sure one of the sitting rooms was finished quickly so they’d have a private space away from the chaos of the renovation. At the moment, only that room, one bathroom, and the kitchen were near completion. The sitting room had a cozy fireplace, some ridiculously comfortable furniture Tolliver had acquired from somewhere, a fine rug, and even a stocked bar with polished glasses and a dozen bottles of liquor Raith didn’t feel sophisticated enough to appreciate. He didn’t drink enough to justify such an extravagance, but Tolliver insisted it was appropriate and Zinny backed him up.

  It was still before noon, though, and none of them were taking advantage of that particular amenity.

  The door suddenly burst open. Raith looked up hoping it might be news from Pridian. At Tolliver’s suggestion, they had hired a local boy to check in at the bank once an hour and bring any message straight to them. Raith wasn’t used to delegating, but Tolliver’s idea had spared him from running back and forth all day only to come up empty-handed.

  This time, however, it wasn’t the messenger boy. It was Mistress Edna, the head of interior design for this renovation, holding two strips of fabric. One a gentle yellowish-beige, the other a pale reddish hue.

  Tolliver had cast a silencing spell around the room to block the constant hammering and shouting from the rest of the manor, but that also meant no one could hear a knock. An arrangement nobody was especially pleased with, but the servants, accustomed to observing proper decorum, seemed to hate it even more than Raith.

  Mistress Edna didn’t look perturbed, though. The short, middle-aged woman had a mass of salt-and-pepper hair piled atop her head so tightly Raith imagined it must hurt. She was brisk, proper, and spoke with the clipped authority of one of his father’s old drillmasters.

  “Which color for the curtains in the lounge, my lord?” she asked crisply.

  Raith stared helplessly at the fabric, then looked to Thea, who frowned and shrugged.

  “Both!” Zinny chimed in cheerfully. “And get other colors too, like purple and orange and green! Oh, and blue. We mustn’t forget about blue!”

  “Don’t listen to her,” Raith said quickly. “Why don’t we just go with the reddish one? That seems nice.”

  Mistress Edna inclined her head ever so slightly, her expression cool. She shot Zinny a sharp look.

  “As you wish, my lord,” she said, and swept out of the room.

  Raith slumped in his chair. He had no idea that remodeling a home required an endless parade of small decisions. Every five minutes it seemed there was another. Paint colors, fixtures, drapery, tiles, furniture, and he neither understood nor cared about any of them. It was exhausting, and the constant interruptions weren’t helping his etiquette lessons, which he already hated.

  He looked down at the table setting in front of him with growing dread. They had barely survived the discussion of seating arrangements and their social significance before he’d begged to move on to something else and now, unbelievably, he missed that tedium. The hierarchy of who sat next to whom had at least made sense.

  As he racked his brain for an excuse to change the subject, the door burst open again.

  This time it was the messenger boy, clutching an envelope.

  “Lord Quirric?” he called.

  “Yes,” said Raith, Nyhm, and Zinny simultaneously.

  Then they looked at one another.

  “Zinny, you’re not a lord,” Raith said, gesturing for the boy to come forward. “You’re a lady.”

  The pixie giggled and bowed. "I am, aren't I?"

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  The boy hurried over and handed Raith the letter, who quickly broke the seal. After giving it a once over, he prepared to read it to the rest of the team, but paused seeing the boy still standing their expectantly.

  “He’s waiting for a tip.” Tolliver murmured, then flipped the boy a silver coin. The lad snatched it out of the air with lightning-fast reflexes and dashed out of the room, calling, “Thank you, my lord!” over his shoulder.

  Raith unfolded the letter and read aloud:

  Lord Raith,

  I find your message most peculiar. However, your performance during our mutual detail has earned a modicum of my respect.

  I shall be in the city of Ballymeadow in four days’ hence.

  If you wish to meet me at the bank at that time, I shall ensure your treasure is seen into our vaults within the main branch.

  — Pridian

  Raith let out a long breath of relief. Judging by his companions’ expressions, they felt the same.

  “Four days,” Tolliver said, nodding. “Good. That gives us plenty of time for etiquette lessons before the party tomorrow evening and still time to prepare for the journey afterward.”

  Raith groaned, echoed immediately by Nyhm, as both brothers turned back to glare mournfully at the accursed silverware.

  ***

  An elegantly penned letter sat unopened upon the fine wooden desk, as though the truth of its contents might be avoided by leaving the offending missive unread.

  The owner of the desk, Venton, former High Emissary of Beckhaven, sneered down at the letter, his hands clasped tightly in front of his silken shirt. To an outside observer, his expression might have seemed one of disdain, but someone looking closer would have seen the fear lurking beneath the polished veneer.

  Everything had been a disaster since that thrice-cursed godlaced child had entered his life.

  First, he had been forced to assassinate Templar Gannymede. A man he had, in truth, rather liked. But Gannymede had not yet been brought into the fold and was perilously close to uncovering the secrets of Venton’s allies and their quest to free the true giants.

  Then that stupid boy had somehow slipped through his grasp, only for Venton himself to be outmaneuvered by the ridiculous Archduke, of all people. That sniveling, soft-handed fool had gotten the better of him, and the sting of that humiliation would take years to fade.

  And then there was that boneheaded, short-tempered satyr, Darius, who had managed to uncover his plot and force his hand far too early. How that fool had managed it will forever remain a mystery. They had escaped with only a fraction of the allies Venton had hoped to rally before the final play.

  For some reason the Assassin’s Guild rejected his employ following their first failed attempt, and now…now that ignorant child had somehow managed to thwart the formorians and snatch the key from beneath their very noses.

  The Weavers might smile upon Raith, but Venton most certainly did not. And he would ensure, with every breath left to him, that the boy paid for the chain of humiliations he had brought upon the High Emissary.

  His vaunted diplomatic skill, bolstered by a generous helping of charm spells (unfairly outlawed in all three kingdoms), had thus far kept his fragile coalition of traitorous Templars from splintering. But cracks were forming. Whispers of doubt had begun.

  He had served as the liaison between the giantkin and the Templars. It was he who had persuaded them to the formorian cause. Now it would be he who suffered the wrath of both sides should the plan fail and the Three Kingdoms rise to avenge their betrayal.

  His only saving grace was the isolation of the Templar stronghold in Faranor. Between the aethercore and [Divine Skills] that fortified its walls and the sheer remoteness of its location, no enemy army could come within twenty miles without being met by overwhelming force.

  Still, Venton’s eyes returned to the letter on his desk. The formorians were going to demand something distasteful of him, of that he was certain.

  The Raith boy who had stolen the key would almost certainly have taken it back to Beckhaven. The formorians could not march an army through hostile lands from their southern kingdom in time, so the task of reclaiming the key would fall to Venton and whatever forces he could command here.

  He did not object to that. Destroying the Raith and everything he touched would be a pleasure. The destruction of Beckhaven itself, however…that was another matter.

  That city was meant to crown his triumph, not perish beneath it. Once the true giants were freed, the Three Kingdoms would fall in due course, and Venton would rise as their savior. The voice of the giants among humankind. A ruler in their stead. A benevolent one, of course, but whose word must never be questioned, lest mortals risk the wrath of those who ruled second only to the gods.

  Now, that dream seemed to slip further from his grasp with every passing day.

  He exhaled slowly, then lifted the letter between two fingers as though it were coated in filth, and delicately broke the seal.

  Master Venton,

  The vile thief who stole our rightful prize has somehow evaded our finest diviners, therefore we are once again forced to rely on your dubious competence.

  Find the key. Kill the thief. Marshall all of your forces to take down that city stone by stone if you must, but the key must be recovered.

  If you should fail in this task, do not bother reporting back. We shall find you in person.

  Until Next Time,

  Lord Balador Ethielren, Eye of King Dalag, Chief of Espionage for the Great Kingdom of Formor, Inheritor of the Dawnsword and Premier Emissary to the Small Folk

  Venton crumpled the letter and threw it against the far wall, watching as it uselessly bounced onto the floor. That was considerably less helpful than he’d imagined it to be, and now he simply had to pick it up himself due to the cursed dearth of servants in this place.

  Leaving it for now, he stormed from the room to find Beauregard. Hopefully the man was still in the castle, for Venton had need of his [Divine Skill]. If he was here, he was almost certainly in the common room deep in his cups in spite of the midday hour.

  The High Emissary was both relieved and appalled to find he was correct. Beau lounged on a heavily upholstered chair with his boots kicked up on the table. He was snoring soundly with a half empty mug of ale beside his feet.

  “Beauregard!”

  The man jerked awake, kicking the mug off the table and spilling the contents all over Venton’s suede boots. The High Emissary wrestled down his anger. If Beauregard used his [Divine Skill: Teleport] to flee then it could be days, or even weeks, before he turned up again.

  “My apologies for startling you, Templar Beauregard, but there is a matter which urgently requires your assistance.”

  Beau looked up at him suspiciously and wiped away drool with the back of his hand.

  “Eh, what’s that?”

  “The relic is in Beckhaven and must be recovered. Scrying attempts have failed, therefore we require prompt eyes on the ground.”

  Beau rubbed at his stubbled face as he considered the matter.

  “Do I get to use the ring?”

  “Yes, but you cannot waste time indulging your…other interests. Time is vitally important.”

  A grin spread across the Templar’s narrow face.

  “Of course, High Emissary, of course. I’ll be ready to go in an hour.”