Maeve did her best to keep her face still and calm as the mortal mayor of the town rambled on and on. The man was reed-thin, and his austere looks were matched by the plain and professional office they were meeting in. The only area where the man was not a miser was the realm of words, which flowed from him at a worrying pace, threatening to drown the unprepared. The situation would have been easier if the man were incompetent—if that were the case, she could just tune out his words. But he was, by all accounts, a very talented administrator. He just struggled under the weight of her presence and lost all focus on the task at hand.

  She fought the urge to tap her foot or let her impatience show. It wouldn’t match the image she was aiming for, nor the path she hoped to follow. Did she regret choosing an intent based on patience, despite her total lack of it? Maybe. But that was why it was a worthy path—it was teaching her something and building her up.

  The mayor was relaying a detailed account compiled by the mortal guard captain, another diligent servant considering the quality of the reports she’d requested. It outlined the comings and goings of wandering cultivators, plus other travellers, from caravans to vagrants. Officially, Maeve was here to check on the movement of potential threats, namely the Divine Cultivators. Unofficially, she was continuing the hunt for her errant fiancé.

  “We have also seen a rapid exodus of several members of the Golden Hind—or, I should say, former members. They claimed to have relinquished their membership after an internal schism. At least one high-profile member of their lodge was slain.”

  “How did you come to know this?” she asked, hearing a tut from beside her. Madame Rensleigh was taking notes and nudging her to remember her etiquette. Maeve internally grumbled but added the address she’d missed. “Lord Mayor.”

  Maeve quietly cursed her own decision to make this an in-person meeting as the mayor shuffled some papers to retrieve his notes. While her Governess could, in theory, have handled this whole meeting on her own, her grandmother had deemed it important for the mortals to occasionally see those who ruled them. What she hadn’t expected was that this would turn into a training session for her intent. Its focus on timing and positioning demanded more patience—a virtue that came to her as naturally as breathing came to a rock.

  She managed to hide the twitch forming in her eye as the mayor finally found the piece of paper he was searching for.

  “In the extended report, Captain Coates notes that the Golden Hind are banned from the city as they have consistently clashed with the Order of the Twin-Tailed Kite. They were recognised at the gates and challenged, where they shared that tidbit. These two recent exiles asked permission to move through the city, collect supplies, and continue on. Permission was granted, as it was deemed unlikely they were lying—such deceit would see them hunted down by the Hind. Captain Coates felt it best to let them pass through Krinnburg and take any trouble that stalked them well away.”

  “The Hind are not powerful, I imagine?” Maeve asked. This was why an in-person report was helpful. A thousand and one little groups bustled about their territory, and it was impossible to keep track of them all. Or it would be, if she weren’t Mithril rank. Somehow, she knew her grandmother would’ve known who they were.

  “No, they have at most one Steel-level cultivator. They are more akin to a business group than anything else. They used to be managed by the Order of the Night Rose, but that arrangement fell apart last year. I’m not surprised they have disbanded if they lacked an Order to back them.” He shuffled papers again.

  Maeve made a note to check out the group. Smaller organisations, especially those without Order backing, were prime recruitment targets for the Divine Cultivators.

  “I believe that is it for notable accounts. I have nothing left to report.” The mayor nodded. Maeve nearly let out a sigh of satisfaction, but a sharp nudge from Madame Rensleigh stopped her short. She had to stifle the follow-up groan as she realised she’d be paying for that slip in their next training session. Her Governess would not be pleased at having to nudge her.

  “In that case, I thank you, Lord Mayor, for you and your representatives’ fine work. I shall mention the upstanding quality in my report. Now, we must depart.”

  A minute or two later, Maeve and Rensleigh were outside, walking through the streets of Krinnburg. The town was teeming with mortals, with a few showing off Stone Rank tricks—like couriers darting through the crowd at breakneck speeds, or a man carrying an entire barrel of ale over each shoulder with ease.

  They walked through cobbled streets and looked down on ornate buildings, the first floor built of stone, with upper floors made of beautifully carved wood. Flowers in window boxes decorated the buildings, marking the first real signs of spring. Down here on the plains, the snows were much lighter, and she’d almost forgotten that the seasons were changing. It was almost too pleasant.

  If the mayor had seemed less competent, she’d have assumed this display was being put on for her benefit. It wouldn’t be the first time a mortal tried to hide poor management with some temporary window dressing. But she got no sense of that here. Stalls crowded the streets, selling all manner of food. People hawked their wares, and the town hall rang its bell, marking the hour.

  Amidst all this, Maeve and Rensleigh walked in silence, a little personal bubble of space around them as the common folk parted like a wave. People didn’t want to push up against regular cultivators, let alone those who wore Chox colours. Bumping the elbow of the people who owned your town was low on anyone’s list of priorities.

  Maeve was fighting down the urge to just plough through the crowd. She had to be patient—that was the goal. She had to distract herself from the torture this wild goose chase was becoming. Maeve had already decided that "wild goose chase" was a terrible idiom for a futile hunt. A wild goose could not be easier to hunt than a man yanked out of the world by an all-powerful fae.

  Given the task, she had decided to tour Chox territory first under the guise of inspections. She’d been at it for two weeks, which shouldn’t feel like much, but it had contained far too many conversations just like the last one. Lots of information. Not one lead.

  “My Lady, a word.” Those hawk-like eyes of Madame Rensleigh’s watched Maeve, assessing her.

  “Yes, Madame?”

  “You should take a moment to relax. You’re too tightly wound—a harp string set to snap. Given our next destination, that is not an acceptable state for a Lady of the Chox household.”

  “Have you ever tried to relax on command?” Maeve snapped back, before catching herself and sighing. “You may be right.”

  “You’re doing very well, my lady. I must admit, when he brought out the second folder, I did briefly consider grabbing it and making up some excuse.”

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Her Governess chuckled. Maeve goggled at her. What madness was this? A laugh and an admission of impropriety?

  “Who are you, and what have you done with my Governess?”

  “As I sat there watching you try to appear patient, I realised I may have been doing you a disservice.”

  “I was being patient,” Maeve bristled.

  “No, you weren’t. You were impatient but stopping yourself from acting on it. These are different skills.” Rensleigh cut back.

  “I don’t see the difference. Surely that is patience, is it not?”

  “Imagine two knights. They stand on either side of a gate, waiting for their foe. One waits, blade poised, ready to strike. The other has the blade ready but at his side. When their enemy does come, which is the more dangerous?”

  Maeve was about to answer her but paused and mulled it over. She allowed Rensleigh to guide her to a tavern, where a corner table became miraculously free. Moments later, a pair of glass steins with golden liquid appeared.

  “It depends, does it not, on the length of the wait? The ready knight is more dangerous if the enemy arrives quickly. But after a while, his muscles will tense and lock up. Then the one who waits at ease will be the more lethal.” Maeve took a sip. The beer was good. She liked this part of the mountains—they took their drink seriously.

  “Indeed. In fact, I would argue that in most cases, the knight who is at ease is the better knight to be. The ready knight loses more combat ability than he gains by holding the weapon ready. And his loss of ability only increases as his fatigue ramps up. It is also a mindset.”

  “Yes, if I stood ready by a doorway for an hour, waiting to attack, I doubt I’d have the thought to imagine my foe was doing something else. The ready knight would become locked on the idea of the foe coming through the door.” Maeve sighed and drank deeply. “I was just thinking that the mayor was helping train my patience, but he’d only exhausted my arm, it seems.”

  “It’s why I felt I owed you an apology. I believe I’ve not been teaching you the right things. I have taught temperance and self-control—to be ready but hold back your strike. I should’ve spent more time giving you the tools to stand calmly at ease, aware and awaiting your opportunity.”

  “And this begins with you laughing and admitting to plotting to abandon our meeting?”

  “You have spent a lot of time with your seniors, who have mastered the art of appearing patient. I thought it might help to know that we are not as serene as we appear.” Rensleigh took a sip while Maeve digested it all.

  In the corner of the room, a bard pulled out a lyre and started to play a tune.

  It was true. She’d spent much of the last few years avoiding people her own age. In part, it was the bullying. But mostly, it was that she spent all her time tearing herself apart, comparing herself to them. She looked about the tavern. A bard played in the corner. A group of people not much older than her met over drinks, laughing and hugging. When was the last time she’d been so carefree? When had she spent time with someone her own age and just spoken casually?

  She laughed as the image of a smoky fire bloomed in her mind. Was her wedding night the only time she could remember being around someone her own age and not winding herself up for some kind of competition?

  “You’re saying I’m measuring myself against the wrong people?”

  “Indeed. I also think we should change our approach. Something I admit I’m willing to discuss is how to put off our meeting with the Order. I find Knight Lord Jasper draining.” Rensleigh allowed a frown to darken her face. Maeve laughed, the stress of the last two weeks easing. Her sword arm unclenched for the first time since she’d begun her task.

  With no idea where to start, and only her grandmother’s opinion that their target would be used to disrupt Divine Cultivators, she had chosen to aim for small towns likely to be targeted by the enemy. Those were the places where one person’s presence was most likely to make an impact.

  It had been her idea to prioritise talking to the mortal administrators of the various vassals in their realm over the cultivators. She’d found that mortals tended to take better notes about wandering cultivators, as they posed a far greater threat to mortals than they did to groups like the Orders or Covens. That allowed her to get a picture of all the unaffiliated cultivators running around. Those who commanded smoke were few and far between. While the gift wasn’t unique, it was uncommon enough to act on any rumour she heard.

  That was what had brought them here to Krinnsburg. Sadly, the cultivator in question turned out to be an untalented Squire of a Knight Errant, who mostly worked protecting caravans of the wealthy. She had now gained everything she could here and was looking for where to go next. Before she could, though, she needed to at least say hello to the local Order.

  Coming to a town and only speaking to mortals would be ignoble of them. So, they also had to make time for the cultivators. As the granddaughter of Morgan Chox, any visit she made invariably involved displays of fawning, some kind of demonstration of power, and, if an Order was feeling particularly pompous, introductions to eligible bachelors, given her freshly broken engagement. That thought about ‘couplings’ stirred a memory in her mind.

  “I thought you and Knight Lord Jasper had a history of a romantic nature,” she prodded her mentor, embracing the friendly mood Rensleigh had set.

  “Exactly why I find him so draining. He has a belief things will rekindle between us, no matter how many buckets of water I pour over such nonsense.” She tutted. “I mean, we courted for barely a year decades ago. The man needs to meet some more women.”

  “It would seem you cast a long shadow over his other prospects—not that I’d expect anything less of a woman of your calibre. Thank you, Madame. I needed this.” Maeve laughed and finished her drink.

  As the last dregs passed her lips, she noticed a man in a neat suit, one she recognised from the mayor’s office. He was running towards them, and Maeve had to silence the desire to flee from him and his binder of paperwork.

  “My lady, I’m pleased to have found you. Secretary Wilkes, at your service. We have just had a Commander Smith from Fosburg arrive. The Order was busy preparing to receive you, so she was sent to Captain Coates’s station. She mentioned a couple of things—we may need privacy to discuss.” The man was out of breath and shaking. Despite the run, he seemed pallid, almost ill.

  Madame Rensleigh waved her fingers, stirring the air to deaden the sound of the tavern and blur the sight of those looking in.

  “The Commander is looking for aid. It seems Knight Lord Fos, lord of Stonetown in Fosburg, has uncovered a Divine Cultivator plot.” The man’s fear made sense. He had heard Maeve was looking into those monsters’ movements, but to suddenly have a report placed before him must have shaken him.

  One thing did bother her, though. She knew of those vassals.

  “Aren’t the Fos brothers...” She searched for the right words to describe the rumours she’d heard about the pair. She hated having to be politically aware. Fosburg was on her list of places to visit but hadn’t been high up, as there had been few reports of Divine Cultivators in that area. Perhaps the famous pair of idiots were just throwing insults around?

  Thankfully, the secretary didn’t make her insult the local lords aloud, inferring a great deal from her silence.

  “Knight Lord Ban Fos is the adopted son of the Lord of Fosburg, not his more famous sons by birth. Ban’s reputation is one of an exceptional leader.”

  “Ah, I didn’t know he’d ascended to Knight Lord. Well, we must respond. Is she still here?” This was important, even if it wasn’t the task she’d been given.

  “Yes, I’ve sent a runner to her. The mayor assumed you would want to speak to her directly.”

  “The mayor decided how my lady wished to spend her time? You realise we are expected by the Order of the Twin-Tailed Kite?” Madame Rensleigh’s gaze bore down on the quivering man like a hawk eyeing a mouse. Even if this was vital information, a mortal should not presume the actions of a Knight.

  “Please spare the mayor. He seeks only to please. There was a second part to this. The Commander mentioned as part of her report that a ‘Bardic Cultivator’ who used smoke was part of uncovering this plot. As that was one of the gifts you asked the mayor to prioritise reports on, he felt it would be important enough to warrant your attention.”

  Maeve felt her pulse quicken and her hearth burn, resonating with her intent. Days of faffing about, and now there was something real before them. She knew deep down this had to be it—her soul burned with that certainty.

  Only the training of the last few weeks of sitting through boring meetings kept her in her chair. She pulled the folder of papers from the man’s unresisting hands and smiled at him.

  “It seems the Lord Mayor continues to be an exceptional servant. Now, tell me, Wilkes—where is this Commander?”

  The man barely had time to point towards the tower, upon which Maeve could see a landing for large winged fae beasts, before she surged out of her seat and ran across the town.

  The time to strike was now. Patience and decorum be damned!