A black cloak swooped suddenly around a worn-out, white robe, and the cloak's hood sunk low over the face of a tall, bearded man. The cloak was buttoned quickly, the robe and face seeming to disappear in it's endless blackness. In his right hand he lugged a staff draped with black linen over one end. A fierce, salty wind rose off Soacop Harbor and flapped the cloak of the lone figure, out of place amid the ranks of battered gray buildings. His cloak was too dark against the scoured wooden walls of warehouses and the Inn that he was leaving. The wind rattled the sign over the inn door auspiciously, nearly hard enough to lift the painted yellow bird off the board it was painted on. Shàrinà's Song the sign proclaimed, though no shàrinà had ever braved such fierce winds long enough to sing near Iotron's port. However, the pleasant thought must have drawn customers.

As the red-bearded man approached the market, the streets became wider and busier. The buildings were brightly painted, blocked from the wind by the streets' meanderings. Most shop windows were open, displaying deep sills filled with goods, with the merchants' counter just behind. Wide, unbleached canvas and burlap awnings stretched out across the streets, leaving deep pools of shadow to cool the teeming crowds. In the square at the center of the melee, caravans and farmers had set up many booths. All shaded by swags of burlap, the goods were displayed on any kind of table, bench, cart, or box available. People came from throughout the realm to trade here, in the capital city, even from the separated Realm of Emmara. The Emmarans almost seemed to flaunt their loose, shoulder-length hair that had come to symbolize their difference from their northern neighbors. They were tolerated, even welcomed, in Iotron for the mounds of spices and bolts of rich fabrics available nowhere but their stalls.

The bearded man rarely glanced at these stalls. Nor did he mark the fresh produce, woven baskets, and tanned leather in the stands of the dark-skinned plainsmen. He did, however, look closely at the stands of the mountain men. These were filled with everything from ore and rough gems to elaborate jewelry and tiny gold boxes. He spent little time perusing the merchandise, looking instead at the shopkeepers. The mountain folk were pale, yet robust from mining. The women and boys had their hair cut short and braided tightly against their heads, a style developed to keep out dust in mine shafts. The men shaved their heads, and many wore skullcaps when out in the sun, even under the awnings of the market.

The cloaked man stopped by a stall run by a mountain man whose forked beard was plaited with rings. Filled mostly with suits of chain mail, helmets, swords, daggers, axes and other sorts of arms, his stall contained only one small box of jewelry. Nonetheless, the cloaked man strode up and asked him, "Would you have a pendant in the shape of a fish? I am from the Islands, you see, and it would help me feel comfortable here, on the continent."

"I have just the thing," he replied, picking up the box and pulling him into a wagon at the back of the stall as another man emerged to take his place. Once the wooden door was closed behind them, he turned. "I was beginning to think you weren't coming! You sure took your own sweet time, Mihrol. What if I had been recognized?"

Mihrol snorted, "Recognized? How many outside Vath Vagor recognize the Order of the Rings? When was the last time the Railie King and his guard left their mountain home? Strigil, I believe? How many times have you been outside since your induction? No, I think that it would be worse if I were recognized. What would they do to a wizard of the old order?"

"Well spoken, but wouldn't you be able to take care of them?"

"This is Iotron! They would send Emperial Guards with the spell-catcher. Thank the gods there's only one! Without it, though, as with more, there would be a strong imbalance in the fabric of magic."

"And you wouldn't call the Curse an imbalance?"

"No. I'd call it a rip."

"Bitter no one's sewn it back up!"

"It is weakening, which is why we're here. Isn't it?"

"We are grown too large for the small refuge we saw Vath Vagor to be. You know that. Never has Vath Vagor had the splendor of Cor Melén. The 21 thanes forced to give up their autonomy! Our rightful king forced into hiding!" Mihrol flicked his hand at the red-faced Strigil. "Forgive me, the very thought of such things sets me to boil. If you think we have a better opportunity now…" Strigil shrugged, "Though I don't see any signs of the curse weakening. What that has to do with Cor Melén itself is beyond me. But the curse does mean that we have to deal with the Efflamm …" he spat, "and we can't march an army out east to take it back. In its stead, I have chosen a small strike force exclusively of elite King's Guard to accompany us."

"Ring men. Excellent," Mihrol nodded, "And you're right about a small group, but we need to diversify the mix, add an element of surprise … a plainsman or two, perhaps."

"A plainsman wouldn't be able to fight in the mountains! He would break his spear butt on the stone in his upswing and start a rock fall with one throw of his fanciful blade."

"How do you expect to get there? Wizards can only teleport people in stories! You're far too eager."

Strigil turned, indignant. "We had best get going, then. We shall roll south at the end of the market day. Be ready."











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