Chapter One

  The Golem

  Nephis Flores was to be married to the Duke of Cetryl, a most horrid and corpulent man. Upon first hearing this, the inner court of Radina was ecstatic. Cetryl was a land rich in silver and iron, one that had held the burning eyes of the High King for a long time. And now it might belong to them. And Nephis Flores did not yet know.

  The hard heels of the Fair Lady Nephis Flores clacked on the stone floors, the sharp sound echoing into the lofty halls of the palace. With a stern, proud face, she walked past the hard steel knights that lined nearly every hall. And the courtiers held their breath, for the king was furious. Fair Lady Nephis curtsied before the stairs of the throne. She was a small thing with hair cut above her shoulders, an odd fashion for a lady, but one quite necessary given the circumstances of her birth.

  “You called for me, Father?” she announced herself, her gaze kept low to the ground.

  “My retainers tell me you have denied the Duke your hand in marriage,” he pressed in a low and powerful voice.

  “It is true,” she answered. All of the court braced themselves.

  “And why is that?” King Flores asked sternly. He was a man who kept his temper with all things, but his daughter.

  “I did not like him,” she replied, “He is an unpleasant man and I dislike his smile,” her voice recoiled at the very memory of it.

  “You denied the Duke because of his smile?” He asked, his chest growing higher and his gaze falling sharper.

  “It was a terrible one,” she persisted, “And not just because of his smile, he is fat too, terribly so, I fear he should drown if he sleeps wrong.” A slight smile crept up her mouth.

  “Nephis,” the king spoke in even tenor, but the whole of the court went pale, and the princess’ smile slackened. “This is the thirteenth suitor you have turned away.”

  Nephis did not respond, her mind awash with ice and wind.

  “Thirteen suitors I have sent your way. The Duke’s holdings could have been yours, folded into ours without a drop of blood. This is far more than I have granted to any of your sisters. There is nothing left for you. You are going to marry the Duke of Cetryl.”

  “No,” she whimpered.

  “I gave you good men, rich men, pious and young, and everything you asked of me; and you turned them all away. What more can I give you?” he lamented.

  “I want a man I can respect!” she demanded, standing as tall as she could.

  “That man does not exist!” the king bellowed, his breath was hot, and his grip firm. He turned his face away, “If you cannot marry the Duke, then you are useless to me. I will drag you to him myself if I must.”

  “Then let me be useful to you! I will do anything you ask! Just please, please do not make me marry that man!” Nephis begged, her eyes squarely on her father.

  King Aoth Flores stood up, his long black hair falling about him, and all the court cowered, fearing that lightning and flames might burst through the ceiling, for they very well might. He was about to reprimand his daughter yet again when a soft, ivory hand reached across to his, like a lily on a stone.

  “Surely one small task would not be too much trouble?” Nephis’ mother asked in a gentle voice.

  And the king’s heart softened. He was quiet for a moment, his anger fading away in the hand she held.“It will be a short trip. No more than a few months,” he said, returning to his throne.

  Nephis restrained herself from leaping from joy, instead giving a dignified curtsy and thank you to Father and Mother, a smile bubbling from her lips all the while. And so she left for a journey that could not leave her unchanged.

  Nephis sat bored in a carriage, her face pressed against the thin, delicate glass of the window, watching the withered faces of thieves and murderers peek from inside the woods. The world passed at a snail’s pace. The princess was not unused to seeing the dead; the capital’s roads were lined with the crucified. And it seemed even here, so many days from the palace, they struggled with scum. They twisted with the trees, vines wrapping up their posts and tearing away at the rebel’s greying flesh, their very faces dry and weathered as bark, gasping for air and mercy that would not come.

  Her fingers toyed with her traveling companion, a velveted bag full of scrolls, messages for friends of the king. Despite all her hopes, it had become a very dull journey. She was chaperoned from place to place by the driver to deliver a message to some lord or mayor and sit with their platitudes for a night, before ferrying off somewhere to speak and hear the same thing again. But worse than that was the travel, the highway was now nothing but a thin cobbled road threading between trees and hills. She had hoped to see the Ceroil wood by now, but they would still be another day, a day of nothing but ordinary trees, birch and oak and elm. Worse still was the company, her driver was a feeble and dull man, either too empty-headed or too fearful to address a noble. He was correct, it was not his place, but good manners did little to alleviate boredom.

  “Lady Flores,” he called from a slat in the carriage wall.

  “Yes, driver?”

  “Are you sure it is right for you to travel without a retinue?” he stammered.

  Ah. She had nearly forgotten. How many days did it take him to work up the courage to ask? She did in fact recall a prank of sorts, a scheme if you will, where she had ordered her guards to collect a number of heavy and cumbersome furniture for the trip before whipping the driver onward. She cleared her throat. “Yes, my father said it was alright,” she assuaged his fears. She would have to reckon with Father at the end of it, but it was a small price to pay, after all, she could smooth things over later, as she always had.

  The driver gave a dissatisfied, warbling, ”hrm,” but did not question her further. And now, the silence would come again. The cart rattled on the old road, swaying from side to side, the clopping of horses and the regular duku of wooden wheels on stone echoing on the empty road. The air was heavy with the perfume of cedar, and so Nephis began to drift asleep, her eyes growing heavy and her breathing softening, when in her stupor she saw something strange in the woods.

  She shot awake and pressed herself against the glass, it nearly bowed, nearly shattered. There was someone walking in the woods, obscured by tree and bush, a giant man at least eight or even nine feet tall. And she could see him. And he was made of wood.

  “Driver!” she demanded, “Stop the horses!”

  “Lady Nephis, what is wrong?” the driver asked in shock.

  The horses reared back, but before the cart had fully stopped, Nephis kicked the door open and leapt from the carriage. And the moment her feet touched the ground, she raced for the trees.

  “Lady Nephis! Lady Flores, come back!” the driver begged, but it was already too late. His shouts mixed with the wind in the trees.

  Branches snagged at her clothes and snapped against her, she leapt over every creek and hollow that threatened to trip her, each tree and bramble seemed a whorl of paint. She barreled forward, sure he was only a few steps ahead, until at last she stumbled into a clearing. In the tangled roots and soft lichen, he paused, the old elms rising above them to support the leaves and sky. Standing in the glade was the golem, as peaceful as a doe. Nephis stared in awe, he had vines and wood for muscles and unhewn sapphires for eyes; he rippled with strength and yet did not move. The golem turned his moss-covered head at her, eyeing Nephis with a distant curiosity, as if she were only a fox or a marten passing through, but soon lost interest and turned away.

  Still entranced by the creature, Nephis watched a while before coming to her senses. “W-wait!” she stammered.

  The golem whipped around to her, not taking a step, only leaning, and yet he was right before her. It was huge, it towered above her, nearly twice her height. He was as strong as any ox and fast as any mare. And Nephis’ blood ran cold. The creature loomed over her, watching her close. The longer it stared, the less human it seemed, its flat face more resembled a helmet, its mouth was only a hinge where the wood overlapped, its chest was barrel-like and its arms as wide as a man’s thigh. It could not blink, it did not breathe, it only watched her.

  Nephis stole her courage and cleared her throat. “Hear me, golem!” she slammed her foot on an old log that lay before her, and like a whip the sound cracked through the air and glade, “I am Nephis Florescu, thirteenth of my father’s line, the Sorcerer King, Emperor Flores, blood of the terrible drake Gorynych! And that same blood runs through me! Listen close, golem, I offer you a pact! Take my hand and become my retainer,” her voice rang with gilt nobility, and she swelled with haught. She stretched out her hand as she finished her speech, her signet ring beneath the creature’s chin.

  The golem remained still.

  “Well,” Nephis stuttered, the wind leaving her sails, “Don’t just stand there. What will it be?” She kept her chin high and her ring finger extended, but she had lost all her force of will.

  The golem slowly nodded.

  “Really?” she asked with widening eyes, her stern exterior melting away.

  The creature took her hand gently into his and bent low to look her in the eyes, and in a deep and rich voice said, “Yes.”

  Dorin paced back and forth, gnawing at his knuckle. He should have left the carriage to chase after the princess, but he did not know where she went, what if she returned to find him not there, what if she was lost, these thoughts clashed in his mind, and his eyes fell upon the distant crucified and he despaired. But then, at last, the princess emerged from the forest. She was flit with branches and leaves, and small scratches across her hands and face, which struck his heart, but she was alive. “My lady, you are alright, please do not leave your servant so suddenly,” he chastised her softly, his heart awash with relief. Then all the sudden, something emerged from behind her, a monster, taller than any man with a frightful face. The driver rushed forward and drew his dagger, “Lady Nephis! Hurry behind me, something pursues you!” he cried in a warbling voice, his face pale and his grip slicked by sweat.

  But Nephis did not hurry, and ambled along with a great grin, “This way,” she ordered, and the beast followed tamely behind her.

  “Lady Flores?” the driver asked in confusion, “Lady Nephis, what is that? What is that?”

  The golem stepped into the carriage behind her, and as it did, the carriage craned with its weight, its struts groaning, its wheels bowing. And with great fear and timidity, the driver whipped the horses forward.

  Nephis sat stuck against the door and the golem, smashed quite thin, her shoulder reaching her ear, and her knees knocked shut. “So, golem, tell me, what are you?” she asked.

  “I am me,” he answered.

  “No, but what manner of beast are you?” she clarified.

  He stared more blankly than before.

  “Well, do you have a name then?” she asked, a little flustered.

  The golem sat quietly and thought, his head lilting to one side and then to the other before slowly answering, “Moss.”

  “Moss?” she asked, “Why are you named Moss?”

  He pointed a claw at the moss that hung from his skull like a facsimile of hair.

  Nephis burst into laughter straight from the stomach, hearty and full. The driver had never heard anything like it from the girl. The rest of the drive passed in a blur, hours gone of little more than inspecting the strange Moss, quizzing it, and then realizing it may have to meet with some rather important people. And so Nephis did her best to teach the creature the ins and outs of courtly manners. Though how much of it stuck was a mystery.

  At long last, they arrived in a wonderful trading town, Elemeer. Nephis hopped out of the carriage and approached the driver, who still reeled in his seat. He could hardly see her, only her eyes and hair peeked above the tall seat. “Thank you, driver, that will be far enough,” she announced.

  “Of course, my lady, I will find a stable to house the horses for the night and the next,” he responded.

  “No, please return in thirty days time to pick up me and Moss,” she clarified.

  “Return? Lady Nephis, if I were to leave you here, your father- he would have my head!” he exclaimed.

  “Here,” she said, and beckoned the driver to reach out. Nephis fished within the great sleeves of her robes and placed a handful of golden coins in the driver’s palm.

  “My lady, money is not . . .” He stared down, eight solis, he didn’t make in that year or even two, he had never held so much money in his hand. He looked over at the two horses, the pristine creatures panting, muscles quivering, nearly collapsed from lugging the golem and all the girl’s luggage. Gold was heavy, even one of these could buy five new mares. “Very well, my lady, I will be here in thirty days, on the hour, please be ready.”

  Nephis and Moss watched as the carriage bounded down the road.

  “Well, Moss, let’s be off,” Nephis said, but as she turned to face the village, she froze.

  Great shadows reached over the village, passing throughout it like vines. And piercing the horizon like great black thorns was a forest of decrepit trees. Each was huge, at half a mile tall and as wide as a house. These were the Ceroil Wood. Though it was miles away, its great branches reached across the sky, casting her shade as far as the eye could see.

  The village was of a good size, though no buildings aside from the inn were higher than a single story. Her roads, though well worn, were in good condition. And all seemed clean and all seemed well. There were few on the road, most everyone away at work in the mill or the shops. Nephis admired the sight of it, though the village was much smaller than the far capital, it shared her tall and steepled roofs, like a child to a parent. But as they walked, the shadows began to seep, and the sun began to fall. It was nearly night.

  “We must find a place to rest for the night, Moss,” she said in a high tongue, but was really dreaming about what sort of dwelling they might find.

  “Like a deer?” Moss answered.

  “What?”

  The Long Cat Inn was surrounded by four high walls, but even still, rushlight bled through the open wooden gate. And as she approached, Nephis flicked her wrists as if to wipe the grin from her face, her expression now stern as she was taught to be when dealing with common folk.

  Ioan tended faithfully to his counter, the night had gone well, it was full enough, and newlyweds from the countryside had rented the finest room, bringing him a nice lump sum. Then the door opened and it was as if all the air had left the room. It opened slowly and quietly. A girl stepped in. She was young and dressed in strange red and gold robes of foreign make. But most strikingly of all were her eyes. They burned like coal, as if some great fire blazed within her, compelling, demanding all who saw her to kneel. No one spoke a word, the only sound was the clacking of her soles as she strut toward the counter.

  Ioan instinctively stood a little straighter, but as he did, the front door slammed open with a mighty thum. And the whole tavern quaked as wooden creature bent through the doorway, pulling itself through with one three-fingered hand. It scanned the room, eyeing the customers and décor with unfeeling gemstone eyes. It followed the girl, who scarcely seemed to notice its presence.

  Nephis approached the barman, “A room,” she requested, “Please.”

  “I-I’m sorry mam’, madame, but we are all out of rooms,” he stammered.

  Nephis huffed and began to feel around in her great, crimson sleeves, and produced a coin, which she slapped onto the wooden corner, sliding it up to the barman.

  Ioan began to deny her once again. Gold! It was a gold coin! But even still, he wanted nothing to do with her, and the rooms really were full. That is when he noticed her ring, a silver ring bearing the crest of House Radina, the three-headed dragon! Whoever this girl was, she must have been important. The barman stood straighter and began to flip through his itinerary.

  It was very strange. Nephis had always imagined taverns to be boisterous and full of misbegotten scoundrels, but this inn was incredibly quiet and all its patrons especially well behaved, not even in the palace were the servants so meek. But, the barman had provided them with a bottle of wine ‘on the house’. It was not the best, but it was a nice gesture. She sipped from her chalice, taking in the sights, when all of the sudden yelling burst from the upstairs. And soon enough, the barman tumbled down the spiral stairs with a man under his arm, and a sobbing woman in fine dress and flowers clutched in his other.

  “You can’t do this!” the young man yelled, “We’ve paid! Let go of my wife!”

  The barkeep did not respond, but only dragged them past the many long tables of the Long Cat Inn before throwing them, one at a time, out the doors into the dusky night.

  “Your stay is up!” the barman boomed, and tossed them a handful of copper coins. “This is more than enough, enjoy your evening!” And he slammed the inn doors shut.

  “What a noisy pair,” Moss observed.

  “Indeed, it’s no wonder they were thrown out, disturbing such a restful place,” Nephis agreed.

  The barman shuffled to the pair, an apologetic smile on his face. “Your room is ready, madame, please follow me.”

  He showed them to the room. It was the largest room and the most private. She gave him a single nod in response. Ioan quickly scrambled away and down the stairs.

  “Is this your nest?” Moss asked as they both glanced in the room.

  “I prefer to think of it as my den,” Nephis replied.

  “How fearsome,” Moss said quietly.

  Nephis darted into the room and began to inspect every corner of it in a fervor. To Nephis, it was a rather small, but that only added to its vagrant charm. It was bare but serviceable, as the room of an adventurer should be. Why, should could imagine the hero stumbling into his long temporary stay after a day of battle and guile, collapsing into his dusty bed, only to do it all again tomorrow. The only bit of flourish in the whole room was a silver coin bound in red and white cord that hung from the great bed in the center of the room, left behind by the poor couple. A window overlooked the cobbled streets below. Nephis pressed her face against it, gazing out at the townspeople going about their evening. The newlyweds from before were still banging on the tavern door.

  “Oh, isn’t it wonderful, Moss!” she exclaimed, “It’s like I’m on an adventure!”

  Moss was still observing her ‘den’. “Yes,” he replied.

  Nephis turned to Moss. He was odd, unlike anything she had ever seen or heard of. Far too large to be a dryad, but far too natural and lively to be a true golem. “Where do you come from?” Nephis asked.

  Moss peered out the small window and pointed to the great forest that loomed on the horizon.

  Nephis swelled with joy! “Of course!” she exclaimed, “Where else could you be from?”And she began to poke and prod at him. Moss obliged, moving stiffly and gingerly where she directed. Whatever creature that lived in a den must be fearful indeed.

  For a long while, until it was nearly dark, Nephis examined Moss. Under arm and foot, she scurried, even gazing down his long, gaping mouth, which quickly disappeared into darkness. He was a swarm of coiling wood, wood for muscle and bark for skin, his was as stringy and tight-knit as a yew, but dense and hard as oak. Whenever he moved, he creaked. Whenever he walked, his feet shook the ground. Yet when he spoke, his voice was deep and rich, yet seemed nearly timid. As the sky grew a deep orange, Nephis collapsed, having discovered very little about him. He had no runes, nor gears or pulleys, nor even joints. It was as if he were made of snakes or living vines, and still resembled a human.

  “So, Moss,” she asked, her eyes still gleaming, “You come from the Ceroil? What is it like?”

  “Big, I suppose,” Moss answered, scratching his head.

  “Yes, but what sort of creatures live there?” she asked again, “Are there ghouls or monsters?”

  “Monsters?”

  “Yes, beasties, orcs, ballyhoos, wyrms?” she pressed.

  Moss cocked his head, thinking deeply for a moment, “There are many worms,” he finally answered.

  “Yes! I knew it!” she said with glee. “It’s like you’ve walked straight out of a story book.

  “What else is in there?” she pressed again.

  Moss shrugged. “Cats,” he answered.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “Cats?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, what did you do there?” she asked in exasperation.

  Moss thought some more, scratching his head, like a plane against a board, it echoed. “I walked.”

  “Is-is that all?”

  Nephis pestered him about the Ceroil wood for a time longer, but her questions did not reveal much. The woods from his eyes did not seem so dark, but was evidently full of cats and dogs, and the wyrms were rather harmless. If anything, Moss seemed taken aback that Nephis would be so curious about the worms; they were rather dull creatures after all.

  After a while, Nephis instead took to teaching him manners, how to address a person of higher or lower status, Moss as her royal retainer was somewhere above a peasant or freeman but lesser than a knight. As such, when in the presence of others, he would address her as Lady or Fair Lady or Your Grace or any other appropriate title she had given. And in exchange for his fealty, she would house and feed him. “Well, now for a practical lesson,” she insisted, “Come now, my retainer, to dinner.” The words tingled on her lips, and it was all she could do not to spin around in glee. She had never been given a retainer, only her maid Fredericia, though many of her older brothers and sisters had been granted their own servants to order and instruct as they pleased. But here, Nephis had gone and gotten one all on her own. And what a servant he was, no doubt she would be the fair dame of this village in no time with such a follower.

  A small crowd had gathered in the tavern, there was apparently some strange creature in attendance. The townsfolk crowded around the long tables, drinks in hand, whispering to one another about what it might be, or even if it were real. All the while, their eyes were trained on the upper floors; on occasion, the ceiling would shake as something huge stomped around, and the whole tavern would hold their breath. And soon, when the tavern was nearly full, it emerged. A great creature of knotted and woven wood lumbered down the stairs. And no one dared say a word.

  Nephis took a seat at one of the long tables and offered Moss the seat across from hers. This would be a prime opportunity, a room full of the townsfolk, a room full of dos and do-nots. She called for the server, but finding none, she motioned for the barman, who hurried over like a rat to cheese or a whipped pup to its master. There was apparently bread, cheese, toasted grains, and stew on the menu tonight. The barman did not tell her, but the stew was his own. Well, Nephis thought to herself, that would not do, there was so much more that she wished to teach Moss than how to handle a spoon and a hunk of bread.

  “Here, go and find a supple hog, and have it prepared in the way you know best,” she told the barman, handing him a few gold pieces. One gold piece would have been more than enough for the finest hog. But he did not object.

  Nephis began the night teaching Moss the proper way to use one’s bread, how to hold it, and how to sop up the rest of the stew. The townsfolk and Nephis watched with great interest as Moss tossed loaf after loaf of bread into his wide gullet. And soon, some began to offer their own snacks and morsels, just to see what he might do with them. At some point, someone got behind the counter, and the ale began to flow. When asked later by the barman who it was, no one was sure, all anyone knew was that there was ale to be had and plenty. When the barman did return, he brought with him a small train of carts, three of them bursting with butchered salt-pork, which quickly were in as many skillets as he and his wife could muster. And down the long tables came plate after plate, haunches and loins, butt and rib, head and belly, nothing was to be missed; each seasoned with every bit of spice and flavor the poor barkeeps wife and mother could scrounge from their cabinets, and when those ran dry, they pillaged from garden and wild until each neighbor three houses down were owners of barren land (though a bit richer for it).

  And as the ale flowed into wine, so did the game of testing Moss truly begin. From timidly offering the golem bread, soon came chants of joy and amazement as he swallowed whole the leg of a pig, and then in a few short bites followed it with its head, skull and all. And seeing the skull broken to bits by his beak, he was soon drunkenly offered mugs and plates and knives, all downed with little effort. It was a raucous night. And Nephis did not go to bed until she was red in the face.

  So the barman was left with a hall full of drunken farmers and tanners and every sort of man. And though he should have been angry, being short a few plates and flagons, he was rather pleased with the whole thing, having made a tidy profit even before the girl’s gold was taken account of.

  Nephis Flores awoke to a great shadow over her. She shrieked as great blue eyes bored down upon her.

  “Good morning, Nephis Florescu, thirteenth of my father’s line, the Sorcerer King, Emperor Flores, blood of the terrible drake Gorynych! And that same -” Moss began to rattle off.

  “Oh, it’s only you, Moss,” Nephis sighed, letting go of the thinning blanket that she had pulled over herself. “And just, ‘Nephis’, is fine.”

  A pile of snapped wood flagons and clay plates lay in the corner of the room, regurgitated by Moss at some point in the night. But curiously, no meat or bone. Nephis took another look at Moss, seeming much the same as before. “Are you feeling alright?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he answered, toying with a small twig and leaf that sprouted from his head.

  That twig was certainly not there yesterday, she thought to herself. But her wondering was soon interrupted by a small, hushed murmur from outside. She carefully threw her crimson coat and black skirt over her before peering out the door, where a crowd stared gormlessly at her. She opened the door and smirked, puffing her chest out proudly. “Well, I suppose it couldn’t be kept secret for long, yes, it is I, Nephis Florescu, daughter of the High-”

  Her self-aggrandizing was interrupted by a woman in the crowd, “There it is!” she cried, and they charged forth. Nephis was lost in a sea of legs with a muffled “Ahk!” as they stampeded towards Moss. Yet, they would not touch him, forming a ring around the strange creature and whispering to themselves.

  “What do you suppose it is?”

  “A monster?”

  “I’ll bet this is a wizard’s mess.”

  “A faerie?”

  “Do you suppose it came from the wood?”

  At that question, the crowd grew cold and took a few steps back, though their curiosity prevented them from fleeing. The woods were a wicked place, full of every which horror. Mothers told their young stories of what might lurk in there, of what might emerge and snatch them from their beds should they misbehave. It was the road of bandits and beasts.

  “I heard it was in this very tavern last night!” one woman stammered, “Eating and drinking like the rest!”

  “It might be a nasty trick!” someone else warned, “He’s trying to lure you in, that’s a faerie no doubt.”

  Every time Moss moved or changed his gaze, the crowd flinched and cried out. No one dared speak to it, few even thought to. Should it be from the Ceroil, nothing it said would be good for the ears and very well might suck your soul or steal your mind! Slowly, Nephis managed to pull herself up and shove herself through the crowd. She grabbed his great hand in hers and began to drag him out in a huff. The hallway was full of them, and the stairs too. Though they all cleared out as soon as Moss grew close, it took a long while to pull him out of the tavern and past all the onlookers.

  “The nerve of some people, low born no doubt, barging into a princess’ room,” she grumbled, “I was right there.” Once she had pulled him out of view of the crowd, she sighed, there was little good in fussing over the likes of common folk; today she was to meet with a mayor for an hour and start again on her way, this time just her and Moss. But as she looked at him, Nephis was filled with a sense of dread.

  “Moss, we can’t present you like that! You’re naked!” she exclaimed. For all the manners she had taught him would be for naught if he walked around like a newborn.

  Moss sheepishly covered where his privates should have been.

  “Do not fret, Moss,” Nephis comforted him, her chest stuck out and her chin held high, “I am a Flores, after all,” she said, flicking her hair back.

  The two of them began to hunt for a tailor who could fit Moss. The first half was easy. There were many tailors in the city, but they needed clothes now. And few, if any, would fit the giant. At long last, deep in the market, there was a table at the bottom of a hill where a seamstress hawked her wares. And among them was a great blue coat and hat, a very fine dusty blue that Nephis thought suited Moss well. Gingerly, the golem put them on. Even as large as it was, the cloak was too slim to close over him and was particularly tight around his arms and shoulders. And the hat, wide and pointed, was rather dashing, if a bit antiquated. Nephis nodded in approval, agreeing to take it. Hearing this, Moss relaxed and rolled his shoulders forward. RIP and TEAR the sleeves tore from the coat.

  Each of them stood aghast. The market was so silent that one could hear the chitter of a mouse. But eventually, the tailor profusely apologized, perhaps fearing Moss, she offered to fix it right away. And in no time, she had sewn thick leather strips in a lattice between the sleeves and vest. Moss rolled one shoulder back, and then the other. Though the sleeves were tight, straining against his arms, he was clothed. Nephis handed the tailor what she thought the cloak and hat were worth, one soli for the clothes and another for the repair work.

  “Well, she was most grateful,” Nephis commented as they walked away.

  “Yes, people seem to like you after they fear you,” he said.

  “You think so?” she asked in surprise.

  “Yes.”

  The road to the mayor’s home extended far out of the village, in a long, winding road that was obscured by glade and well-walled pasture lands. The last bit of town before one was on the mayor’s personal property was a small stone chapel crested by the most holy star of St. Irena. It was crumbling, its walls overrun by vines and foliage, its tall, hut-like roof nearly bowing in, threatening to collapse at any moment. Her wooden door was left ajar, welcoming any inside her walls, but it was doubtful anyone had visited it in a long time. The wind pushed through the building, rattling its shutters and bringing it to moan in a forlorn voice.

  The road was impeccable, nary a weed to be found or loose stone to be pulled from its belt. The forest that surrounded them was just as pristine, even the grass was shorn to a level height. And penning in the woods was fencing, tall and sturdy, of good oak. These were hunting grounds, Nephis could tell as much, and very well protected ones at that. Whoever the mayor was, he lacked for nothing. They walked for a long while, passing little life, spare lonely huts dotting here and there where crops and pastured animals were to be tended to. And after a while, the village was little more than a distant vision, nestled along the highway. But from the woods emerged the mayor’s home, walled off on any side. But Nephis could see its vaulted roofs and sparkling windows, caged in lead cames, yes, but good glass nonetheless.

  A guard stood before the iron gate and eyed her with suspicion as soon as she peeked over the horizon. “Halt!” he cried as she approached. “The Primar is not taking any visitors today. State your business!”

  “I am Nephis Florescu,” she emphasized the last bit, “I am here to speak with Primar Minhae,” she presented her silver ring, which caught in the morning light.

  Seeing the ring, the guard glanced up to his compatriot on the wall and slammed the butt of his spear into the ground twice. The gate was opened with a low creak, revealing the wealth it hid. The courtyard of the manor was ever neat and tidy, each bit of industry kept to its own and kept well. Nephis made a beeline for the largest home, which stood three stories tall at its highest. Its door was of good, old wood, and inlaid with carvings of yellow wort.

  “Now, Moss, you must be respectful,” she sagely instructed, “The blood of nobles is blessed by God, so it is important to stay in their good graces.” Nephis knocked three times, short and sharp, on the great door. And soon the door was opened by a thin, wizened man with a great, white mustache that hung down to his collar.

  Seeing the girl, he beckoned them in, “Please, come inside.”

  “Thank you, your grace,” Moss replied.

  “No, Moss, he is only a servant,” Nephis said.

  The old butler jumped at seeing Moss, “My, so you are the wonderful creature we’ve been hearing all about,” he remarked, “Please take a seat while I fetch the Mayor, it should only be a moment.”

  “His den is much nicer than yours,” Moss remarked.

  “Yes. So it is.”

  As the butler made his way up the limestone stairs, spiraling to the upper floors, Nephis and Moss took to looking around. The entrance hall was large, and yet hardly open. Trophy cases and shelves lined every wall, full of fine plates and vases, and other little artifacts. Ornamental cedar columns ran along with the ceiling, so fresh were they that the perfumed fragrance of them still lingered in the room. But most striking of all was the far wall, it was lined, stuffed even with mounted heads, deer and boar, wolf and bear, not even fox and rabbit were spared, each with a plaque and pristinely presented. They each lead the eye to the centerpiece, a great goat head, as tall as a man’s torso, with noble horns that spiraled in perfect loops. The goat was centered with the door, the great cedars leading one’s vision to the trophy.

  There came a stomping from down the stairs, a grunting and the rattle of a buckle. The Primar Minhae made his way down with a scowl as he fixed his belt. “You’re not Cevril,” he spat in a sour tone.

  “I apologize, my brother could not make it,” she confirmed, “So I am here in his stead. Nephis Florescu,” she curtsied.

  “How . . . familiar,” he muttered, and gave a bow of his own, “Forgive me, my lady, had I known you would be here, I would have prepared a warmer welcome.”

  She gave a polite smile in return as he descended. His eyes flicked to Moss from time to time, but soon rested on the girl, though he smiled, his eyes were wary and cold. Minhae was a corpulent man, overfull, his vests straining to contain his stomach. His hair was thin and only full where it might form a tonsure, so he kept it shorn. They sat in front of the stuffed heads. Nephis took the great couch to herself and offered him a sitting chair. For a while, they made small talk, chatting politely about little nothings. Such conversations had become vulgar to Nephis, though she did her best to hide this. After all, it was his first impression of the princess, even if she had many first impressions of primars along this journey.

  After a while, the mayor clapped his hands together, “How could I have forgotten! Refreshments, Willa, bring Lady Nephis our finest tea!” He called out to one of his many maids. All of them, to Nephis, seemed unrefined, sun-darkened skin, calloused hands, and little elegance or austerity among them.

  “Yes, Primar!” she stammered before hurrying off, as flitty as the rest.

  There were more similarities among them, Nephis noticed, wide hips and ample chests. She watched the Mayor as he leered at his servants, and a pit formed in her stomach, reminding her of someone else.

  Soon, Willa returned with a pot of tea and three fine, thin cups. Each with elegant paint and delicate motifs etched into them. She poured Nephis and the mayor a portion, it was a dark, ruddy color, as fine as caramel. She brought the final cup to Moss.

  “H-here you are,” she offered, her hand shaking and eyes darting from corner to corner.

  “. . . Thank you,” Moss said after a while, he had been inspecting the shelves. He poured the tea down his throat, still steaming hot.

  She poured him another cup. Wherein he drained the cup in the same way. This continued until the pot was out of tea, and by this point, the steam had begun to rise up and out of Moss’ ever-curved smile, out from the gaps of his helm-like face.

  “I-I’ll go get some more!” she hiccoughed and ran back to another room.

  Nephis admired the tea, it was pure with no adulterants, its scent sweet and floral, like a pale anise. “My, is this blackroot?” she asked.

  “You know it?” he replied, “Though I shouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Yes, my Cevril introduced it to me,” she warmly replied, “He was first introduced to it in his hostage in the East. It is expensive, no?”

  “Indeed, it is! I had it imported from Chan’ra. But, and I am certain you would agree, such petty things like price are little in the face of quality,” he gushed, perhaps the first true bit of life she had seen from him. Chan’ra was an arid region of the far east, a long way even from Radina’s extensive and ever-growing borders.

  As their small talk continued, he spilled over with compliments. “Your father has always been a most close friend,” “Your hair, why it is black as beetles,” “Your skin like ivory, just like your mother,” “A most wise child, I am sure you put your tutors to shame!” These sorts of praise were not uncommon, especially from the primar on the outskirts or in desperate situations, though his were . . . excessive. Eventually, Nephis grew bored of the tea and the compliments.

  “Enough of this, let us get down to business,” she clapped her hands so to dust her fingers off. Nephis plucked his scroll from her satchel and broke its ruddy seal. The letter began with a long-winded introduction, establishing the seat of the Primar and reiterating the ancient rites of the people of the land, and the assurance that the crown would honor them and knit them into the greater fold. Nephis spoke all of this with all due grandeur, but it had become a bit repetitive, and it took all she had not to sigh or rush through. But soon came the words of the king,

  “Listen,” Nephis said in her well-groomed tongue, “the words of the High King, Aoth Florescu, Lord of these realms: It saddens his majesty to hear of the plight of your village and estates. As your people are already burdened by plague and floods and winds, and your neighbors keep from your halls, his majesty has agreed to your request of a stay of taxation and tribute, so that your people might . . . “ Nephis trailed off.

  What was her father speaking of?

  After a long pause, Primar Minhae spoke up, “Well,” he nervously motioned for her to continue.

  “Primar,” Nephis addressed him, folding the scroll shut, “For a village ravaged by plague and winds and floods, it is doing quite well.”

  Minhae tightened immediately, his nose pulled up, and he looked down at her, “Things are not as well as they seem, you would not understand in a mere carriage ride through the town. But I assure you, conditions are dire.”

  “Really?” Nephis asked, “When I was in town, the inn was full, I could hardly get a room. I’ve never seen so much drinking. And the market was bustling, not only with food, but all sorts of fineries and good craft and cheer.”

  He swallowed, but kept a stern face. “These are recent changes, we are coming out of a terrible time, but taxes would cut us down as we stand. You would not do that to us. The king would not do that to us.”

  “Tell me, Minhae, the blackroot, all the way from Chan’ra? That is an expensive tea brought along an expensive route, I would know,” she pressed, tracing the rim of the cup.

  “Am I not allowed a small luxury?” he responded with a huff.

  “Well, I would not call it small. Even we only drink it once and a while.” This was true, though cost was hardly a reason. “And your couch, is that Ministrati?”

  The Primar did not respond.

  “There is no use denying it. What elegance, why his work is all over the palace. An excellent craftsman, I know him well,” she said gently, though trapped his eyes in hers.

  “And so? This village has had better years. What if, in those better years, I treated myself to a piece of ‘excellent craftsmanship’, he does not only do work for the palace,” he pushed back, his fat lips falling into a tight purse.

  “And kept it so clean and free of scratches. Why, even palace furniture is not kept so well, always in need of polish and varnish,” she drew a finger along the cushion, finding a thread that she threatened to unwind.

  “What if I keep my furniture well?” he spat back, “What are you getting at?”

  “I find that hard to believe,” she calmly replied, before drawing her attention to the centerpiece of the room. “And your Capra Mare,” she referred to the head of the giant goat, flexing the extent of her education. “They are found only in the far north, quite away from here. That would not be a simple ‘day trip,’” she pushed.

  “And what if I had hunted it long ago!” he protested, “And what if I had someone else hunt it for me?”

  “Really, Minhae, a man as proud as you? Displaying another man’s kill?” she mocked him.

  “And what if I did! What if I did!” he was furious, red in the face and shaking his fist. Minhae was a man of little self-control.

  Nephis slowly stood up, he was a petulant man, one who tested her patience. She was certain there was little chance he would admit his sin. “I tire of this, Minhae,” she sighed.

  “And I tire of your,” as he spoke, he slowed, “accusations,” he finished.

  Nephis held her fingers in the visage of a crucifix, “My father does not tolerate thieves, Primar.”

  Primar Minhae froze, his breathing short and shallow, his face pallid, sweat dotted his brow. And the girl stood unmoving, only watching him with burning eyes. Then, as if a great cloud had passed over the sun, the room darkened, and there was only this moment, this threat.

  Minhae snapped from his terror, “Ah, allow me to get a light. Willa!” he called, “Bring a flame!”

  “No, Primar, allow me,” she said and reached out a slim finger to a candle that sat on the center table.

  Of hearth and home does man belong.

  As she spoke the strange words, it was as if all the warmth left the primar’s body, and to him, her shadow seemed to grow a thousand times. And a spark leapt from her finger to the wick, which lighted with a little thp! The sorcerer king’s own, doubtless.

  “Now, primar, why don’t you give us what you owe? I am afraid you are overdue. Best not to tarry,” she said with a thin smile.

  “Yes, Mica-” he began to say, “No-no, I will get them,” he stammered before rushing up the spiral stairs, nearly tripping over himself.

  He tore through his drawers with such panic and fervor that the floor shook, stirring the village girl still in his bed. Eventually, with sweaty hands, he pulled a small chest from them and looked within. Only half full. It was not nearly what had been agreed on, and his own wage was mixed in. But it was all he had. He shut the box as tight as it would and hurried down the stairs, handing it to the girl with a bow.

  She carefully counted each coin, peeling them out one at a time, “One golden nobel-rose, one hundred twenty silver gros, and fifty-seven bronze sac,” she set the last one down with a thwap. “Is that the agreed upon amount?”

  “Yes, your highness,” he fervently said, lying through his teeth.

  Nephis slid the coins into a string purse she had commandeered, tying it up her right arm, next to her personal funds, all hidden in her wide sleeve. “Well, I’m glad we have this all sorted, but I must take my leave,” she curtsied to the mayor, “Goodbye, Primar.”

  “Goodbye, my lady,” he said in a terse, quivering voice.

  “Come along, Moss,” she called. And the mayor watched as the two of them walked from out of the manor and into the light.

  Defeated, the mayor trudged up the stairs to his darkening room. He watched them for a while, strolling without a care, meandering through his garden, along his roads, relaxing on his land. He gripped his weary head, slick with sweat. And then a thought crossed his mind. She had never promised to keep his secret, as her brother had. She had no reason to. The image of him hanging from a post, naked, his fat tongue spilling from his mouth like a common thief. Minhae began to wretch. He watched them again through his small window, their shadows growing long. His breath was ragged. And his eyes were drawn to the corner, where on his desk was parchment and pen. Their shadows ran him over, pulling him to quill. He held a quill with quivering hand, its tip as pointed as a dagger, glinting in the fading morning sun. And in it, he found resolve. Primar Liviu Minhae would not be found for a thief. And the paper bled with ink.

  Nephis walked until her feet ached terribly, like thorns in her heels and a knife upon her toes. The next township was a day away by cart and horse, three by foot. But there was a tavern, far from any village, only a few more miles away. Their start had been late, and the road poorer than expected, only dirt and only sometimes packed, so the sun craned in the sky. The Ceroil wood, with its mighty oaks and pine, was black against the orange dusk. Here at the edge of the wood, the trees were dead. Great hollows of dry wood, and yet only five feet from their border were sturdy, healthy trees of an ordinary size. And the people cut freely from these, but never from the dead wood, and certainly never from the living wood within.

  Nephis’ feet began to drag, and her breathing grew heavy and weary. Just where was this damnable tavern that butler told her about? She tried to push herself further, there they would find a warm bed, maybe even a cart to take further ahead. Even still, she was nearly spent. Moss lifted her up and onto his shoulders with his great arms. “Ooh!” Nephis exclaimed, “Thank you, Moss,” she praised him. And she stayed and rested, watching the stars flick into fading East, until after a long while her strength returned and she walked again.

  The night was terribly dark, and their way guided only by moonlight. The tavern must have been close, Nephis was certain, the butler had recommended it to her as she left through the gate. But there was not even a speck of lantern light on the horizon. Then something snapped. Nephis paused, straining her ears, but there was nothing but the soft sigh of the wind. She tread carefully, it was surely nothing but an animal, a small one as that. But as she came to a bend in the road, where the path curved around a small hill, she stopped. Her neck tingled, and her muscles tensed. A shadow was hidden, shifting among the black of night. There was something there.

  She took a step back, but it was too late; from behind the hill came a wall of shadow, and she was thrown to the ground. Brigands pinned her to the floor and pulled her arms behind her, one bony hand threaded up her right sleeve, snatching both purses. “Gag the witch!” a harsh voice snapped, “Save the coin for later!” Nephis was about to scream when a rag was pulled around her mouth, and her face thrust into the dirt. Her nose had a pale ache, and her cheeks and eyes stung from the dust. They bound her arms and legs with coarse rope, but as they tightened the final knot, a voice called from the darkness.

  “What are you doing?” Moss called.

  Yes! Nephis thought, Moss could handle this all on his own.

  They quickly lit a lantern, revealing the towering golem, standing quietly in the darkness, his sapphire eyes glinting in the yellow light. “What are you doing?” he repeated innocently.

  They all stumbled back, some grabbing for their blades. But the leader of their band, a tall, well-scarred man, lifted a hand. “We’re just showing her the way,” he answered in a stern voice. “Are you hers?”

  “Yes, I am Nephis’ retainer,” he answered proudly. Moss looked down at her, tied up, lying on the ground. “She is tired,” he eventually decided.

  Moss, you fool! Nephis screamed in her mind.

  The thugs all gave a tense chuckle. “Right she is,” the leader answered, “Smart lad for noticing that. Why don’t I carry her, so she can rest her feet?”

  There was an awkward tension hanging in the air before he spoke again. “Well, golem, we’d best be going!”

  “Moss,” Moss replied.

  “W-what?” the bandit stammered, confused.

  “My name is Moss,” he confidently asserted.

  “Right it is,” and the bandit leader began to shuffle away, Nephis slung over his shoulder.

  Moss stepped forward, and the brigands all froze when he then lifted both his arms up, his wrists kissing. When no one said anything, he clarified, “I’m Nephis’ retainer.”

  The bandit leader stared at the gesture for a while before he understood. “Go get some rope,” he hissed to one of his men, “Give the g- Moss here what he wants.”

  And so Moss’ hands were bound together with as much rope as they had. The bandits carried Nephis off, kicking and thrashing as hard as she might, with Moss close behind, off the old road and into the night toward the woods.

  In the distance, someone was watching. Kugo sat atop a far hill, the scrambling and shouting had arrested him in his hiking. Peering into the faint moonlight, all became clear: a noble lady was being kidnapped. He would have preferred to find this scene a hundred miles west of here, but beggars cannot be choosers. He collected his things and crept after them.