“It was far worse than a crime. It was a mistake.”

  Taliesin the Stormlord, Archmage

  “Milord, the young Jarl is looking to manipulate you,” said Viggo as he walked alongside Taliesin. Runolf walked on the other side of Taliesin, and the two strolled around outside the manor house, ostensibly to check on their refugees.

  “At the behest of Brant, no doubt. The steward is a canny one,” said Taliesin, seeming unperturbed. “Did you know they set two maids to attempt a seduction this morning?”

  “Hardly seems a problem,” rumbled Runolf. “Enjoy the fruits of their labor and ignore the gentle pleas that Brant no doubt planted in their little heads.”

  “I’m not in the habit of allowing others to choose my companions. Worse, he sent two scrawny girls scarcely into their majority. What sort of lecher does he take me for?”

  “That only confirms my suspicions. They pushed a surprisingly tough line with you. I’m given to understand you’re not from this realm? You’re an archmage from a different world?” asked Viggo with a note of caution in his voice.

  “Yes, that is correct. I arrived a few days ago and landed bare as a newborn babe in the snow. It was right in front of Jarl Gunther’s carriage as it was under assault from brigands. Or, if we’re to be honest, the good Sheriff’s paid mercenaries. I’ve scarce a single penny to my name.”

  “Oh I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” said Viggo with a smile. “I managed to ‘liberate’ Landsman Varo’s strongbox. In addition, the villagers swore fealty to you directly,so you own the contents of the winter silos that we cleared out and a fair few number of horses and wagons. Varo had already collected taxes and tributes, and he paid the Royal Fifth, so there is a fair amount of coin, debt free. Better yet, the young Jarl and his steward don’t have a clear picture of exactly how much food we were able to save before they agreed to feed our people. I daresay even without those rations we have enough to make it through the winter. We’ll be able to sell extras come mid-winter when food stores start running low, especially if more outlying villagers make it to the town.”

  Taliesin’s eyes glinted in amusement. “Viggo, I daresay you’re going to make a great steward. You’ve done wonders so far. I suspect you’ll be invaluable for achieving my goals.”

  “What are your goals, milord?” asked Viggo, who took word of his official promotion in stride.

  Taliesin turned to Viggo with a fiery determination in his eyes. “I find this world so far to be ill-prepared and poorly organized in the face of nigh certain doom. The Twilight of the Gods spells the end of civilization and perhaps humans as a whole. Yet I am not of this world, and am not bound up in the threads of Fate. I refused the Norns their gifts in favor of my own, but I would be foolish not to recognize their machinations amidst their cryptic words. I suspect they don’t wish for this Twilight to follow through to conclusion, and hope I continue my path of defying this world’s Fate,” Taliesin paused for a long moment, absently moving to stroke a beard he no longer wore. He caught himself midway, and scratched at his smooth chin for a moment before continuing.

  “I need some measure of time to rebuild my vestments. I need better enchanted protections, implements to allow me to cast my truly powerful spells, and wards to safeguard both me and my varingjar. Further, I must do some research into more useful, practical magics that will make this enterprise succeed. I know many spells from memory, but they tend towards weather control and battle magic. With some effort I can re-create many, many more.

  “I can use that power to build a citadel the likes of which the world has never seen before. It will be an impenetrable bastion against the very gods themselves, and raise armies to defy the grim destiny allotted this world.”

  Their slow walk through the manor house’s compound had taken them to the doors of the old barn where the refugees were currently sheltered. Runolf opened the door. Within, the space had been transformed. Old hay had been swept aside, and debris neatly piled outside. The room had old horse stalls on either side, which had become tiny rooms for families. Colorful blankets were hung to create tents over each stall, with their belongings piled within. In the back of the large building was a hearth that a half-dozen women had gathered around to bake bread as porridge bubbled over the flame. Children played in the middle of the barn, racing back and forth but careful to stay quiet lest the adults shush them and end their play time. They were still louder than they thought they were, but their parents seemed tolerant.

  “Your plans are ambitious, milord,” said Viggo as he stepped around a little girl who was hiding behind a wooden crate that was humorously smaller than her while another girl searched her out in vain. “What we need are more definitive first steps. How invested are you in this town and the coming fight with the Sheriff?”

  “We need to understand the situation here in the town, and we need to keep our people occupied. You have family in town, yes? Reach out and start making contacts. Find out what you can about the factions in town and what they are thinking. At the same time, we need to get some building materials. See to making repairs to the barn. Get some stone and mortar to make more hearths, and some boards to repair the worst of the drafts.”

  Taliesin turned to Runolf. “For you, start talking to the other refugees in town. I suspect many of them are lost and directionless. Refugees are rarely welcome, especially at the onset of winter. We will need more men under arms than we currently have, and we have an excess of weapons from the village loot.”

  “Are you asking me to expand my throng?” asked Runolf, an odd expression on his face.

  “No, I’ll not ask that of you. First, I don’t understand how throngs are formed. But we need more soldiers, and by the time I’m done we’ll need entire armies. You and your varingjar are my sworn men. Any new armsmen you recruit answer to you. If you find more throngs, you are their superior.”

  “And keep a sharp eye out for Forgings, Warmaster,” said Viggo, apparently taking Taliesin’s words as a new title for Runolf. “Send any that are ill suited for war in my direction, and I’ll find a home for them.”

  “Do we have some money for Boosting?” asked Runolf. “I’ve two who believe they may get a second Forging soon.”

  “Milord?” asked Viggo.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what Boosting is,” he said as they continued their inspection of the barn-turned-shelter. “Also, see if we can find more cloth, and perhaps some hay. A layer of hay in the sleeping spaces would go a long way to making this warmer and more comfortable.”

  “Of course, milord,” said Viggo, “and Boosting is when a Forged uses aether gems to temporarily increase the strength of their Forgings.”

  “Folks on their first Forging sometimes break into their second Forging if they use aether gems,” said Runolf helpfully. “Although mostly it’s used by folks with a second Forging already, since then it’ll Boost their active ability, instead of their passive one.”

  “Supposedly,” corrected Viggo. “It doesn’t always work. And, if you Boost too much, you can burn out your Forging. It can take weeks to heal from that.”

  “Ah, that explains some of that first fight when I arrived. I was a bit too cold and naked to pay much attention at the time, though.”

  Viggo cleared his throat awkwardly, while Runolf just nodded as if that made sense.

  Taliesin continued, “shrinkage is a real problem, and the Arbiter was watching.”

  Runolf choked on a laugh as Viggo’s face turned bright red.

  By now they were at the back of the old barn, in front of the hearth. The old chimney was leaking smoke into the room, and was poorly drafted. The fire wasn’t nearly as large as it could have, and the pot hook looked about to fall out. Taliesin frowned. That won’t do at all. It’s liable to burn the whole barn down.

  “Let’s see about fixing that hearth while I’m here. Then I’d like to check on the girl child we found by the road.”

  Taliesin walked over to the smoky fireplace, and casually used a cantrip to pull the porridge pot off the pot hook and set it on the floor out of the way. One of the old women by the fire went over to it quickly and wrapped a towel around the handle to move it somewhere else. With a motion and a word, Taliesin cast [Shape] on the stone. He placed a hand against it and with the spellform expanding as he fed aether into it, he soon had a sense of the whole rickety construction.

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  With a few thoughts, Taliesin directed the spellform to meld together and seal up the holes. Then he [Shaped] the chimney flue to properly draw the smoke up and out, and he repaired the flimsy pot hook. Then, almost as an afterthought, he shaped a stone oven above the fire.

  The women gasped as he worked, and thanked him profusely when he was done. “It’s no matter,” he deflected. “You’ll still need to craft a door for the oven, but it should make your bread easier to bake.”

  “Many thanks, Stormlord,” said the oldest of the women.

  Pleased with being able to offer a practical repair with his magic, Taliesin turned back towards the barn. “Let’s see what else we can repair while I’m about it.”

  Warm.

  The very first thing Aina felt when she woke was warmth and comfort. The tips of her ears ached a little bit, as did the big toe of her left foot where the lining had worn out in her boot. Her chin felt off as well. Yet despite these minor aches, she actually felt reasonably well. With a large but silent yawn, she stretched, then froze.

  She was under thick blankets. With pillows. And proper linens. She looked around in sudden alarm, and scrambled backwards until her spine hit a carved wooden headboard. A nursemaid in the corner looked up in alarm, saw that Aina was awake, and ran from the room. A very well appointed room, with a proper door.

  Aina looked down to check herself, and nearly panicked again. She wasn’t wearing her own clothes. She was wearing a thick, woolen night dress that was admittedly very comfortable - but it was a woman’s night dress, not a man’s. A quick feel revealed her breast bindings were gone, and the feel of wool against her chest was disconcerting. She spotted her belt with her sheathed twin seaxes on the nightstand. Aina lunged and grabbed it, before backing against the headboard once again.

  With the handle of her long knife in hand, ready to be unsheathed at any moment, she relaxed slightly. She watched the door, feeling like a cornered rabbit. Long seconds ticked by, and the slight chill in the room began to seep through the wool gown. With her free hand, Aina grabbed for the blankets and pulled them over her lap.

  Seconds turned to minutes, when a light knock sounded at her door. Two men strode in, both dressed as nobles, followed by the nursemaid with a tray heaped with food. Aina regarded them warily even as her stomach rumbled loudly as the smell of roast meat drifted her way.

  The younger looking of the two, a red-headed man with a neatly trimmed beard, laughed when he saw her, sheathed blade in hand. “I daresay you rescued a feisty one, Taliesin.”

  Aina turned to look at the other man. He was slightly taller than the first, well built with a shock of thick white hair. His eyes were a bright blue, with a glint of amusement in them.

  “So it would seem, Jarl Gunther. You seem to have recovered, child. Tell me, what is your name?”

  Jarl? Aina’s confusion was complete. How had she managed to wind up under the care of the Jarl? Last she heard, the Jarl was dead. Although considering the red-haired man was scarcely older than she was, then this must be the old Jarl’s heir.

  Aina held her hand over her mouth, then her throat. Then she signed, “I cannot speak with words. I can hear you though.”

  “Hmm, mute,” said Jarl Gunther. “I’m afraid I cannot understand Hunter Speak.”

  “Strange, I could understand a fair bit of that. She said she can’t speak, but can hear. It’s very similar to Soldier Sign from my old home. Although it’s a good thing she can hear. You can hear, right? I understood that correctly?”

  Aina nodded, and relaxed her guard fractionally.

  “Excellent,” the white-haired man. “The tray of food is for you. Take your time with it, you’ve not eaten well in too long. Eat your fill, as much as you want. You’ll not starve here.”

  “Where am I?” signed Aina. “How did I get here?”

  “I didn’t catch the first part. You came here because I came upon you in a ditch, near death. I asked Jarl Gunther here to heal you, so he fixed your ailments with his Forging.”

  “Well, you seem to have this well in hand,” said the Jarl. “I’ve much to do, so I’ll leave you to it.”

  “Am I in the Jarl’s house?!”

  “Are you in… I’m guessing that was the sign for ‘Jarl’? Yes, you are in the Jarl’s house, in a guest room adjacent to my own.”

  The man gestured to the nursemaid, who brought the food close to her. Aina watched her approach, but the smells enticed her into relaxing slightly. She set her sheathed weapons next to her leg, within easy reach, and accepted the tray that the nursemaid offered. Aina’s mouth watered as she took in the pile of food. Slow roasted meat, turnips and potatoes cooked in the drippings, braised carrots, a small bowl of wheat porridge, and a slice of thick-cut bread slathered in butter and salted generously. A mug of water was placed in the corner of the tray.

  “Eat, eat,” said the man. “Can you spell out your name?”

  Aina inhaled a few bites of carrots, followed by a giant bite of meat. The flavors sang on her taste buds, the rich, fatty broth exactly what her body was craving. She closed her eyes in pleasure, only to snap them back open when she realized she’d relaxed her guard for a brief second. The man was exactly where he’d been before, a slightly amused smirk on his face. He took the seat by the door that the nursemaid had been in earlier.

  Realizing he’d asked her a question, she blushed. She quickly signed, “A-I-N-A.”

  “Hmm, Aina. Based on the clothes you were wearing and where we found you, you were a hunter? Perhaps you got sick on the way back to town?”

  Aina frowned, but didn’t stop eating. She’d polished off the meat and carrots, and was now working on the turnips and potatoes. Aina eyed the wheat porridge balefully, but the bread next to it looked great. She paused long enough to reply, “Yes, I’m a hunter in my village. I was helping keep my mother and I fed. Then she died of a plague, and I got sick.“

  Unwilling to share more, Aina concentrated on her food. She managed to sop up the meat gravy and drippings with the bread and finish almost the entire slice before she couldn’t fit in another bite. With a deeply satisfied sigh, she drank some water and pushed the tray aside. The nursemaid took the tray away, and Aina couldn’t help but relax. She hadn’t been this well fed in months.

  Aina realized she no longer had anything to shield her from the tide of questions the man was going to ask. While she was eating, she’d at least been excused from signing answers. She settled back, her full belly and warm bedding mixed with her recent illness now making her sleepy. But she couldn’t sleep yet, she had to be on the defense. A warm place to sleep, a good meal, and a comfortable night dress. It was too much. There was something else at play here, something that was going to hurt her. This town had done nothing but prove that fact, over and over again.

  She stifled a yawn.

  The white-haired man examined her with a keen eye, then nodded to himself. “You still look exhausted. Sleep, relax. I’ll see if we can find a maid who can understand sign.”

  Aina bristled for a moment. Now he’s not even going to interrogate me? She was confused, but could only nod in agreement. The man was gone a moment later.

  For her entire life, Aina’s only supporter had been her mother, who had been unflagging in her devotion to her unusual daughter. Aina had repaid that love with all that she was. Yet on the other side of that coin was everyone else. Her fellow villagers hadn’t been cruel, but neither had they been friendly. At best they’d been distant and uncaring. Here in Buverik, the townspeople hated the villager refugees. They hated how they crowded the streets and alleys, how they drove up the price of bread, how their desperation drove them to work for lower wages than the locals would.

  For Aina, that hatred had twisted into cruelty, for she couldn’t speak up in her own defense. She couldn’t fight back unless she resorted to violence, and she couldn’t put her mother in the position of having to defend her actions. She shuddered to think how bad it would have been if she’d been dressed as a woman instead of a boy. Now, even that shallow defense was stripped away. Her secret was exposed - to the Jarl of the entire town, no less - and whoever that young white-haired man was.

  The nursemaid came back in and sat by the door. “If you need something, milady, just wave at me. I’ll go fetch someone for you.”

  Of course she can’t understand. Wait a moment, ‘milady’? Aina froze for a moment. She was a peasant huntress from the outer villages. But then she looked at it from the maid’s perspective. Aina was dressed in fine clothes, in a guest room belonging to the Jarl of the entire holding, and had just been fed a meal fit for a king. Any hope of blending in with the servants and thralls was lost, even if she could communicate with them.

  Aina’s thoughts drifted back to her mother, and felt more alone than ever. At least she’d been able to devote herself to her mother’s funeral. Hel should welcome her mother’s soul into the highest level of the afterlife. She’d done everything possible to honor Hel and show her filial devotion. The thought gave Aina comfort, knowing her mother’s soul was happy now.

  Yet that left Aina surprised to be alive after her own illness. A corner of her mind raged at Samuel the cooking thrall that had robbed and attempted to murder her, and that slight would not be forgotten. It still left her adrift in a town she hated, surrounded by strangers.

  Despite all of this, Aina couldn’t brood. Not now, with a warm bed and a full stomach. This strange feeling, this kindness - a word so alien to her that she wasn’t certain how the shape of it even felt - had given her a solace she hadn’t even known she needed. The strange man who had rescued her hadn’t pressed her, hadn’t made demands or been casually cruel to her. He’d been nice. She could give him the benefit of the doubt, she decided.

  As she slowly slid further under the warm covers, the draw of sleep quickly became irresistible, and she began to doze off.

  Just in case, she had a seax in hand, but it was not drawn.

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