Reluctantly, I poured the cognac I had stashed in the Aldermane’s saddlebags—rescued from that tavern in Greensward where the Knight and I had received such an inhospitable welcome, now a smoldering ruin. “You,” the Sorcerer nodded at me as I proffered my steel cup,“are known as the ‘Circle?’”
I blinked at this non-sequitur.
“By some,” Lady Seralynne replied as I struggled with a response.
“You are… three. What sort of geometry is this? Surely the Triangle suits better?”
“It was Cestus who first began to use that term for us,” she replied. “Then the blatts took it up. It’s a reference—”
“To another Circle. A previous band, which also included a ranger, a member of the… clergy,” REDACTEDinterrupted, smirking and nodding as he used this term for me, “the then-Knight of Darkmoor. However, this previous Circle numbered five. There was also the Royal Inspector… and where is our contemporaneous manifestation of that role, pray tell?”
“Graqus—the Royal Investigator—is serving an assignment for the King of Eegland. Representing Darkmoor in some important matter,” Lady Seralynne replied, putting rather more conviction in her response than I knew she personally felt about the value of this mission to Mainesbury..
“Yes,” REDACTED replied, fixing that grin on his face. “Curious timing, don’t you think? That Eegland comes calling just as some grand conspiracy seems to be sweeping through Darkmoor?”
“Do you know something about the Investigator’s mission?” Aldmaar snapped. He was clearly irked by this change of topic.
The Sorcerer swung his gaze to Aldmaar. We were seated once again around the fire. REDACTED, it seemed, was not one to incline or sit, preferring to tower over us. The grin did not change. He shrugged slightly toward Aldmaar. “If not, let us return to the topic. To my question.”
REDACTED drank from my cup. “Very well. Let us continue to live in darkness about the matters of historical circularity. You want to know about the Cult of the Elemental. A not unrelated matter. What questions do you have for me, since you will not allow me to tell the tale in my own style?”
“The girls,” I said. “Why are they stealing our girls? And… the walking dead.”
“And the glasseyes,” Aldmaar added.
“The cult,” the Sorcerer of Anthracite began, “is the result of a historical oddity of this land. A natural occurrence of Darkmoor itself, you might say.”
“There’s nothing natural about this cult!” Aldmaar protested.
“You and I, son of the Wood, must assign different meanings to that term, then,” REDACTED replied darkly. “The cult—the Church of the Elemental, the followers of Zuggtmoy—return again and again throughout the history of this land. This is not the first nor the last rising of this… sentiment. It does not die once slain. It lies dormant under the soil until the conditions are ripe for it to grow again. It abhors light and feasts on decay. Do you not consider the humble fungus, Ranger, to be a natural phenomenon? Such is this cult. When it arises, you may take your spade to it, dig it out. Burn it. And yet the spores linger. And spread. And wait.”
“And what makes Darkmoor such fertile ground for this particular blight?” I asked.
“That,” the Sorcerer stabbed a bony finger in my direction with sudden energy, “is the question, Cleric of San Nicholas! Why here? And why now?”
“Do you know the answers to those questions, REDACTED?”
Before he could respond to the Knight’s question, Aldmaar broke in. “We are continuing to avoid the actual—” he uttered a profanity, “—questions I posed. What are they up to now, this cult? And how do we stop merely responding to what they have already done and intervene before they commit their next atrocity?”
“They have built an army of these blighted ones—these ‘glasseyes.’ They will march on your villages and towns. There are hidden cultists in all of these places who will ensure the doors are open when they arrive. To your Mane Hall, Ranger. To your village, Cleric. And yes, to Elder Pool. There are agents everywhere, waiting on their mistress, Targeta, to send her instructions.”
I could see the fear creeping into the faces of my associates, who I knew to be the bravest of our generation.
“These girls, as I mentioned, they take to solve their riddle. The chant which you heard from my lips only yesterday. An element of the natural recurrence of this pattern: girls are born in Darkmoor with these marks on them—the symbols that, once collected, answer the riddle of the Temple.”
The fire popped unexpectedly, and we all started. Perhaps even the Sorcerer was not immune to surprise.
“This is what she has been pursuing—Targeta. Whose real name is Anarza.”
“Anarza… Greenfinch?” The Knight nearly choked on the name.
“Yes. She is the secret deaconess of the Cult of the Elemental. You may have heard concerns regarding her…”
“From Graqus,” she replied, a light dawning in her eyes.
“Sadly, the Royal Investigator was called away before he could delve further into that matter,” the Sorcerer said, his grin returning.
“Where will she strike next?” Aldmaar asked. “We must get word to them and depart immediately!”
“I suspect that now, finally, Targeta—Lady Greenfinch—has amassed the information she believed she needed. She has identified all of the girls of the land bearing this mark. She has taken note of the birthmarks and is even now bound for the Temple to put this information to use.”
“So we must meet her there. To stop her and end this threat.”
“That will be no small matter,” the Sorcerer replied. “She will have interposed an army between us and her. And she will likely be sending her forces word that they may take action. Everywhere. She has allies—not merely your folk in your villages and towns, but fell creatures everywhere have been promised power and flesh if they heed her call.”
“I see that we have a visitor,” he gestured into the darkness, “and I suspect they bear tidings of this exact event.”
We all peered in the direction indicated.
“A horse,” Aldmaar called, though I saw nor heard nothing. We were on our feet as a figure stumbled into our firelight. A man in the livery of the House of Grey, filthy and shattered, dragging a horse utterly spent, addressed us, unsteadily.
“Milady,” he muttered, gasping for breath. “Milady, there’s been an attack on the Manor. Somehow… assassins… they’ve found their way past our defenses.”
“What?!” I found myself shouting. “Lord Grey… what of his bodyguard?”
“I know not…” the man—Abbilar, as I finally recognized this city watchman—gasped. “There was a great struggle. The Lord has… perhaps fled. Elder Pool is overrun!”