The orange mists surrounds Oulette. She turns in every direction; only the ochre fog. Or is she walking on air, as a bird effortlessly cutting through the sky? The ground is beneath her yet she does not walk. And she reaches out only to swirl the mist that fears her touch. Or does she fear to touch the mist? The haze blinds her with every step. Everywhere the mist and nothing else. Another step and the horror of not knowing what is beyond soaks her being.

In the corner of her eye she sees a figure. She leaps to it but finds the mist is empty. Anger wells up within her. Oulette gasps when she sees the figure to her right. Slowly she turns her head to look at the shadow.

The shadow does not falter. The shadow stays. Oulette takes a step forward; the shadow is still. She takes a furtive step forward, and yet the shadow stays. Not a motion to face her nor a step away or towards her. The strangeness in this strange mist has piqued Oulette’s curiosity to move her forward with greater strides. The form ever slowly comes closer, yet Oulette never reaches the shadow. The blackness within the orange does not coalesce nor does it move even its arms. Are they arms? Is my imagination tricking me into believing the thing is a person? Her pace slows. She swings her weight onto her left foot and finds no more foothold. She falls as she stretches her arms into the orange infinity, the plummeting depths of the mist below yawning for her.

Oulette bolts upright in the meager bed. She stares around at the once familiar bunk and the kitchen beyond the tattered curtain. The tinkling of ladles and pots and spoons adds to Oulette’s déjà vu. The wafting of her favorite soup wells up in her nostrils and urges her stomach to growl in earnest. She wipes the dust from her eyes as she turns her legs out into the kitchen and takes a furtive step.

A step she quickly decided was none too wise. Her legs nearly buckle as she stretches for a wall. Oulette manages to keep herself from sprawling on the stone floor. One of the maids gasp at Oulette as a second, much stockier maid rushes to the young girl’s aid. Curls of dusty brown hair spill over Oulette’s face when the second maid raises her to the center table and gently seats her. “Child, you nearly gave me a scare!”

Oulette hugs the elderly woman. “It is good to see you again, Nessie.” She sniffles. “I have missed your cooking.”

“Oh, and what trash are they feeding you up there amongst the bare rocks?” Nessie returns to the boiling pots of soup and gruel. “I suppose they do not have proper meats in that town. What was it called again? Flowerpebble?”

“Meadowmount. And you know it was called that,” Oulette says with a smirk. “There are quite a few families there. They even have a bakery, given the smallness of the village. I miss Meadowmount.”

“More than our fair Innsbruck?”

Oulette sniffs the cut meats on the table. “There is not a soul in the world that would call Innsbruck ‘fair’. The city is such a maze of shambles and alleys that even the stone smiths would call the city ‘ugly’ as a compliment.” She pulls a strip of jerky and begins gnawing on it.

“They build it while drunk,” Nessie says. She sips the soup and scrunches her face. A couple pinches of a spice and she tastes a better flavor. “If they stopped drinking beer for breakfast then our streets would not be so bumpy and curved.” The aged cook walks over to Oulette and hugs the girl. “You have grown too much, child.”

Oulette smiles. “I will not lie: I have not forgotten the smells of the bake shops nor the fair people here. I have yearned for home when I had trouble with my studies.” She recounts her lessons, the walks among the mountains, and the teasing from the other students. Her words stray from topic to topic: the flowers; the softly frosted mountaintops; the people she has met. “Listra! She and Marglo were with me! What happened to them! Are they hurt!”

Nessie holds her by the arms and motherly massages them. “Hush, child. Calm down. They are both fine. They brought you to the city and the healers tended to your wound. The big one you call Marglo was beside himself. He seems to care for you.” A pause. “Is he betrothed?”

Oulette’s eyes pop at the question. “I do not think so. He never mentioned anyone to me. But if you wish, I could ask if he would be interested in courting you.”

“Child, perish such thoughts.” Nessie giggles. “I am not so beautiful that I can catch his eye. Besides, he cares much more for you. I know the look he has when he talks about you. He was willing to carry you to the keep if the guards had let him. Instead they told him to take a room at the Bare Feet and await word while four of the guards – FOUR – carried you on a patient’s litter all the way up to the keep. I was beside myself when the seneschal had you brought in here. The soldiers told wild tales of the creature sucking on your chest, as if it were drinking your blood. But when the healers opened your blouse there was nothing to see.”

Oulette looks down and touches the valley between her breasts. There was no scarring, no puncture wounds, and no sign of the creature. The thing that darted among the rocks and dirt left no mark upon her skin. She then looks up at the cook and says, “It was such a lucky thing that I survived.”

“If the soldiers were to be believed. However you were deep in sleep and no one could wake you. I asked the seneschal if you could slumber in your alcove and he approved. Truly, I think he would have preferred you away from the kitchen, being sick and so. I would not have it if he pressed the question.”

“No one wants to fight you lest they starve,” Oulette quipped. She eyes the bowl of soup Nessie placed on the table. Oulette pulls the bowl to her lap and, slurp by slurp, savors the broth and chopped vegetables. “I miss this, Nessie. I missed this and the kitchen and the soldiers and the yardmen. I miss the smell of the salmon catch and the hendras leaf they smoke down by the piers. I miss this keep. And I missed you.”

Nessie took a sleeve to her eye. “Oulette, as busy as I am every day I also missed you. You have only been gone eight months but the keep seems brighter now that you are here.”

Oulette sits up in her seat. She puts the bowl on the table and says, “Three days? I have been asleep for three days? Marglo and Listra must have left the city then.”

“Left? No, child. They have been visiting every day during the midday meal. They never asked for food but I still fed them regardless of what the seneschal said. He used that low tone that he uses.” Nessie places her hands on her hips, squares her shoulders, and says in a mock lower pitch: “‘Do not give them food. They are not the Duke’s servants so they get no service from you or from anyone here.’ The seneschal is a thick-headed goose for not showing courtesy.” She spits on the floor. “Midday meals and sometimes an afternoon respite because Listra refused to leave your side. She even helped with your changes and feeding you beet sugar water to keep you healthy. Child, now that I have a proper look at you I think you have been skipping meals since you left Innsbruck.”

Oulette smiles. “I missed your cooking the day after I left. I tried to eat Kinsa’s meals, but the taste was too different. Nothing tastes like your gruel. Even the soldiers around here eat it ravenously. But, I still don’t believe the soldiers carried me up the hill to the keep.”

“You are beloved, child. The soldiers think of you as their youngest sister. The maids here adore you. Only the seneschal thinks of you as lowly. If it were not for his position he would dote on you as a daughter, seeing he does not have children of his own.”

Oulette blinks a tear away. She straightens up. “Nessie, I have to confess something to you.”

“Yes, child?”

Oulette sighs. “The tiara you gave me broke.”

Nessie was about to taste the thrice-seasoned soup when she hears the words. She places the ladle in the cauldron, turns on her right foot to walk to Oulette, places her hands on the young woman’s shoulders, and says, “What happened to the tiara?”

“Another student snatched it from my head and was mocking me with it. Then he broke it.”

Nessie raises one eyebrow. “And that is what happened?”

Oulette quickly dashes the recounting of the fight on the meadows. “That was it. When Mater Veris found out he punished the boy with studies of the Nevinger scrolls.”

Nessie stirs the cauldron. She slurps at the soup and smacks her lips. “That does not seem like a fitting punishment.”

Oulette breaks her lips into a thin crease of a smile. “They are difficult to read and more difficult to understand. One night of studying those scrolls will make your head spin.”

Nessie brings Oulette to her bosom and squeezes her into a loving hug. “Do not worry about the trinket. It was only something to remind you of us here in Innsbruck. But now you are back and everyone is smiling again.”

“Even Lors the butcher?”

Nessie smiles. “Even Lors the butcher. He always looked forward to talking with you and finding out where you played and what new flowers you found up on the plateaus. He once said to me that he always looked forward to your stories about you and Jovyn when you played in the caves north of here.”

“You knew about us playing in the caves?”

“It was no secret. There were always a few soldiers nearby ready to protect both of you if there were any trouble.”

Oulette looks out into the stone walled passage leading to the meeting hall. “So, where is the good-for-nothing rascal? Is he off on some escapade with another girl?”

“Is that envy I hear? I did not think envy would sound so musical,” a man’s voice speaks from the courtyard door.

Nessie and Oulette look to the door. He walks in with a confident step and seemingly honorable air to his stride. The worn leather breech underneath scored metal speaks of the volumes of fights this man has endured. The sword in his hilt is clearly larger than himself. The armor wrapping his wrists and legs are crimped with gaudy embellishment to mark his station within the keep. Regardless of the honor bestowed upon him Oulette reminds herself the ruffian before her is not mature enough to be called a “man”.

He bows to Nessie, dented helmet under one arm and his right outstretched in gesture. “Lady and Guardian of the Kitchens, how are you faring today?”

“Just as suspicious of you as when you were five.”

He smiles as he turns to Oulette. “Lady Oulette, welcome back to Innsbruck. I have heard of your illness and the thought has darkened my mood. But today I see you are well and just as lovely as ever.”

“Your platitudes fall on deaf ears, your highness,” she says, inflection on “highness”.

His mouth forms a mockery of shock. “Why would one flower as yourself refuse the words of a duke’s son? I would lead all of our soldiers on a quest to find the Goblet of Helvrin to deliver unto your hands so you would sway the hearts of the most evil men of Tarynth.”

Oulette makes a face. “Your quest would just lead you to the Bare Feet where you would drink and sing the night away. Be gone from my presence, foul minion of deceit, for I will not tolerate more of your kind in the keep of my master.”

He stands up to his full height and salutes her. “I am not here to deceive but to deliver you from your enemies for the perils that they may visit upon you are plenty and your naiveté has blinded your very eyes from their conniving activities.”

Nessie slams her mallet down very hard on a beef chuck. “If I hear anymore of ‘Halvrin and the Harpy’ I will personally feed both of you chicken livers for a week!” The two youngsters blanche at the prospect. “I thought so! Jovyn go hug Oulette. We all know you miss her terribly.”

The maids, Oulette, and Jovyn laugh at Nessie. He embraces Oulette and takes a seat at her table. He also partakes of the jerky, though his face sours on the tough meat. “So, tell me of the Krinsfolk Mountains. Tell me how mighty they are and how the locals behave. Tell me of the walks I am sure you have taken through their peaks and troughs.”

“Why do you not ask me how beautiful the women are there?” She tears into a sweet bread, using it to sop the gruel in her bowl. “It is never an hour alone when you would not trouble a maiden on the street or in the fields or even here in this keep. You have stolen a kiss or two from Paisley over there.”

The maid assisting Nessie with the roasting pork blushes at the mention. Jovyn raises a hand to her. “Your kiss is fine as the spider’s silk, Paisley. Pay no mind to Oulette’s jest!” He turns to her. “Are you trying to make me seem uncouth to everyone here?”

“Yes. That is your true nature,” Oulette says with a sly smile melting from her lips.

He smiles. “Oh, you have improved in your jabs and thrusts, but your parries need more strength and speed. Here, I have something for you. I thought about it while you dreamed of me.”

“Ha! As if I would be bothered by you while I wake.”

He smirks as he reaches down into a pocket. He fishes left and right until he pulls out a square cloth of a deep blue hue and presents it to Oulette. An embossed pattern follows along the edges and is the only decoration upon the fabric. She reaches out and feels the fabric: smooth under her skin and without blemish.

“What is this cloth called?”

“The merchant said it was silk. He hailed from far western lands and said the cloth is made from a special worm that lived in the tallest and strongest of trees around his own home. His family has lived among these worms for eight generations and have perfected their art. This embossing is a special enchantment that allows the fabric to never need washing. All one has to do is shake it and the dirt comes right off.”

Oulette scrunches her nose to the thought. “That is such a mundane use of magic.”

“He told me that in his homeland magic is widely practiced, though there are some who would use it for ill-will. I am glad that magic here is more constrained.”

Oulette’s eyes widen at his words. She grasps his wrist. “Your father! Where is he? I must speak with him.”

“He returns tomorrow from his visit with my Uncle Varren. You remember him: tall, fat, and laughs a lot.”

She sighs. “Is he the one that would not stop pinching my cheeks?”

“Yes. He has stopped pinching cheeks and started pinching buttocks.” They catch Nessie’s distraught expression. “Father and mother comes tomorrow. I am sure they will be surprised when I tell them you have returned.”

Oulette’s demeanor dampens at the thought. “I am sure they will be more than surprised.”

Jovyn tilts his head in question. “What is the matter? Are you still sick from that creature?”

“No. I am fine,” Oulette says. “I return without magic.”

“Surely you have learned some sort of magickery,” he says while waving his hands in mock casting.

Oulette fights down the smile creeping up to her lips. “I have tried for so many months. I studied Master Veris’s scrolls. He has taught me the intricacies of many cantrips and their like. What I cannot do is command magic to do my bidding. No matter what I do the spells I attempt backfire.”

“But I thought anyone can cast magic if trained properly.”

“With me, that is false. I am no apprentice as much as you are no knight.” She sits up on her stool. “How goes your training? Have you already killed your first convict?”

Jovyn gives her a stern look. “I do not devalue the life of a man just because he made a mistake. Besides there are plenty of highwaymen in need of a new chest hole. I recently returned from a ride along the north road. There was a group of six that harried a merchant caravan and nearly stole all the beer barrels. I led the soldiers and found their hiding place. I can say for certain their resistance was but a pittance.” He smiles from the memory.

“And I am sure that butter knife of yours drank deeply of their blood.”

“It has, though the men’s blood was rather salty.” He stands up and rights his armor. “It was too long since you have graced these halls. Oulette, you may believe me as dishonest and foolhardy, but I say this with all sincerity: I have missed you these many months.” Jovyn salutes, turns on his foot, and walks out the door into the courtyard.

Nessie grunts when he closes the door. “That scoundrel has snuck into this kitchen so many times just to put lizards into your beddings.”

“It was terrifying the first two or three times,” Oulette says. “Then I started keeping them in cages.”

“They never last the week. I keep telling you to feed them.”

“Nessie, I still do not think they eat meat.” Oulette stretches, finishes her meal, and walks over to the Lady of the Kitchen. “So, my friends decided to take room in the Bare Feet?”

“Yes, and then the day after you arrived that caravan made camp outside the city walls. Those folks have been entertaining every day and every evening. A few have even come up to the keep and put on a play for the soldiers. Everyone enjoyed the play except for the seneschal. He was born sad and he will die sad if he is not careful. Well, never you mind about the goings on. I am sure that you want to see your friends.”

Oulette looks at her den mother, one of the many women who has called her ‘daughter.’ The plump woman has taught Oulette manners, the workings of a keep, and the importance of duty. She has comforted and scolded and encouraged and attended. All this while feeding a small army, servants, and dignitaries which includes King Gunter, son of Oswald.

Nessie pats and straightens Oulette’s hair. “Do not cry over the trinket. You still possess the pieces and they will always remind you of my love.” Nessie kisses Oulette on the forehead. “Now on to the Bare Feet. I am sure your friends are getting into one type of trouble or another.”

Oulette smiles and returns the kiss. “Thank you,” she says before walking out into the courtyard. The sun embraces her as she adjusts to the light and the activity in the yard. Grooms and stable boys tend to the horses in the paddock or in their stalls. Over a dozen soldiers are training in pairs with wooden swords. Although their padding is thick the soldiers are intent on their sparring partners. A few are resting and wave to Oulette. The stable boys smile to Oulette while others swing their hats towards her. She waves to each group and continues around the outer wall to the open doors that lead out into Upper Innsbruck.

The keep was built first as a waystation for travelers and patrols to rest in. When the town began sprouting up around the keep several centuries ago the king ordered a larger outer wall to protect the city proper. Innsbruck received its name because it was the city that bridged the gap between Volustag and Polunk on a well-traveled road; peddlers and merchants began settling in the area and many called the foothills home.

Some ninety years ago winter storms pounded the Klustenje Range, of which Innsbruck was settled at the western edge. The storms did not relent and entombed the mountains in several dozen feet of snow and ice. When the spring came the runoff was so much that flooding downhill was problematic. The duke was unprepared for the waters and had to evacuate Lower Innsbruck to higher ground. The crowded city could only watch as most of its buildings succumbed to flash floods and tree debris. To add salt to an already sore wound, a new series of storms added more water to an already depressed populous. When the floods finally relented Innsbruck sifted through the debris. However much destruction the floods brought it did do one thing: a new river formed that horseshoed around the city. The duke hired boatmen from a distant town to explore the new river. Two weeks passed before they returned. The boatmen reported that the river now flows to the northern seas. With a lot of negotiating the Duke of Innsbruck struck a deal with the Duke of Windemere and a centuries old trade agreement gave both duchies an abundance of money and great influence across the continent.

Oulette strolls down Klister Road, the southeastern main road that runs between the Marklin River and the keep. Languishing buildings lean threateningly towards the keep walls from shoddy workmanship in the foundations. Only through a large effort were the dilapidated houses reinforced and made safe for habitation. Children run between the houses. Women tend to the fishing lines strung from their windows. The smell of food wafts between the buildings. Here among the commoners Oulette feels easier and relaxed. The day-to-day business of life nudges her along the streets where artisans, cooks, and peddlers work their trades for coin and food. She passes Bernard’s shop where he sews and hews cloth into garments: every few months he reveals a blouse or a coat that would be considered a work of art in any other city. She waltzes through the aroma wafting from the baker’s house. Though he lost his wife in recent years he has yet to stop baking. Oulette revels those early morning hours where she smells the pumpernickel and blueberry loaves. She walks further down towards the docks and finally stops in front of Lors’s shop. She opens the door and furtively peeks in.

The shop is still filled to the brim with meats of all kinds: pork sausages hang on racks from the ceiling; slabs of ribs and tenderloin rest on the counter, ready to be wrapped and tied up for customers. And in the corner, busily hacking away at meat, is Lors. Oulette pushes the door wider and tips the bell above her.

Lors turns around and a smile creases his lips. “Oulette! You are a sight for these old eyes!”

“Lors!” She walks over and embraces the elderly butcher. His wrinkled hands grip her in a vice hug. “It has been so long since I have seen you!”

“It has been a year, no? Well, let me look at you.” He sizes her and then says, “Do they not feed you there in Weedstone?”

“Meadowmount! And I know Nessie told you to say that.” She smiles. “They feed me enough to keep me alive.”

“Bah! What do they have there that we do not have here in beautiful Innsbruck?”

Oulette giggles. “They have goats. The goats meat is divine.”

Lors levels his gaze at her. “I will not put up with your taunts, ‘little girl’. But I suppose I deserve it for all the teasing I gave you.”

“Not as much as Jovyn does, at least.”

“Hmm. So, I suppose you are not here just to talk to an old friend.”

“I am on my way to see some friends at the Bare Feet. Does Parenda need meat today?”

“She always needs meat. The fishmongers may catch many fish, but they go Parenda first. I hardly get any of the good salmon they boast about. I swear that woman has them at her beck and call.”

“You know the story. All the river folk know the story. Parenda knows how to get her way.”

“Bah!” Lors says with a whack. “One of these days I will storm in there and tell her what she can do with her tavern.” Oulette waits when he answers, “What?”

“Did she order any meats?”

He rolls his eyes. “A slab of reindeer rump. I will go fetch it from the cold box.” A moment later he slumps a slab of meat bigger than Oulette’s upper body. “I could ask Orbun to take this down to the tavern instead of you hauling it by the edges.”

“I think that will be best. I would be hunched over for the rest of my days if I tried to carry this carcass.”

Lors bellows a laugh. “Right, then. Off be with you to that witch’s den. I will have Orbun take it over this afternoon. And tell her I still despise her!”

Oulette playfully waves at the rotund butcher and continues her walk until she reaches the southeast gatehouse. The soldiers wave to her as she strolls through while drivers with empty carts egress from the city proper. Thirty yards distant from the city gate are eleven piers that reach out into the waters of Lakesmere and nearly all are berthed with every manner of lake boat. Tied to the east docks are the fishing boats; the men are off-loading the day’s catch. Shop keepers and cooks haggle the prices while the smell of dead fish grow with each passing hour. The rest of the piers are longer to accommodate traveling barges. These boats are filled with many goods from furs to ores to barrels of beer.

Oulette sees two other boats moored to the west-most pier. These boats are built differently for they are narrow and have masts for sails. They also have stations built with metal plating and a mounted crossbow on the bow. Soldiers use these boats to mount water attacks on unsuspecting bandit camps along the tributaries. The boats are used to so much effect that bandits never venture near the rivers.

Oulette walks down the pier, dodging fishmongers and sailors alike until she arrives at the front door of the Bare Feet. The sign above the door is the simple carved picture of a bare foot. Many decades ago the inn was sold to Parenda, a young woman who did not stand for the unkempt practices of dirty sailors. At one point there was so much of dirt, grime, and oil on her floor that any patron walking in had trouble keeping his balance. No matter how often she and her barmaids tried they could not keep the floor clean. One night Parenda had enough when the twenty-first customer of the night (most people said it was the fortieth) tracked mud into the tavern. She took the (cool) poker from the hearth and declared that the next man to come in with dirt on his shoes would receive a caning from her (then petite) hands. Every man in the tavern laughed and, as the evening wore on, they placed bets on who would walk in and whether the woman would follow through on her threat.

No sooner were the bets placed that one riverboat captain waltzed in. He had just finished selling his load and wanted to spend the rest of the night bragging about his trade. Parenda sized him up, looked at the muddied shoes he was wearing, and demanded that he remove them. The captain laughed at the (then spry) woman and asked how she, all of two heads shorter than him, was going to force the shoes off?

With one swift motion Parenda snatched the awaiting poker from the wall and swung at his left calf. The captain roared in pain and doubled down to the floor. She then took the captain by his hair and pulled him lower while bringing her knee up into his face. She put him over her leg and began whacking him in the buttocks. With each whack the woman chanted, “You. Will. Not. Bring. Dirty. Feet. Into. My. Tavern. Ever. Again!”

She whacked him four more times then pulled him by the ear and tossed him out into the night air. Parenda turned to face the remaining patrons and said, “Who is next?”

Eyes stared back at her. Some were stunned at the fire hot display of rage; others were wondering if he was next. One man (the fifteenth with dirty shoes, as the locals say) quickly took off his shoes, walked out the door, and proceeded to beat them on the railing outside. When almost all the dirt was gone he brought the pair back in and showed it to Parenda. She looked it over and said, “Never put it on until you leave tonight.” He took his seat, his shoes standing sentry next to his bare feet.

The rest of the tavern followed his example and every pair of boot and shoe was inspected to Parenda’s satisfaction. The following day every sailor in port was told how to properly enter the tavern and since then the motto was understood: clean feet, clean meal. And that is how the tavern earned its name.

Oulette looks up at the sign, smiles a little, and then reaches down to remove her shoes. She knocks the dirt off one, then the other, and carries them into the busy tavern. Sailors, soldiers, laymen, and others devour their meals while sloshing grog to wash the hard bread down. Song and merriment is all Oulette could hear as she searches the crowd for her friends. She looks to the far corner where she spots Marglo eating his meal and what seems like Listra slump over. Marglo smiles and nods to her in relief.

Oulette sits down opposite them and places her shoes beneath the table. “How much beer have you imbibed?”

Marglo rumbles. “Do you mean the competition last night with the duke’s son?”

“Do not mention that cur’s name. Ever!” Listra moans from beneath her locks.

Oulette asks, “Did he insult your mother?”

Listra raises her head to stare bleary-eyed at the fair haired woman. “He insulted my mother, my father, and my eight brothers! Every one of them!”

“You should have heard the tirade Listra spouted,” Marglo says before chomping down on a sausage. “Even the sailors around here blushed at her words.”

A wave of laughter ripples through the tavern. One sailor begins acting out Listra’s drunken oration with much hand waving. Oulette returns her attention to Listra. “I just saw him not an hour ago. He seemed fine.”

“He was taking only half the pints to her full share.” Marglo smiles behind his mug. “I had to carry this sack of potatoes to her bed.”

“Grr. I will get him for the humility and my money!” Listra swipes a bread from the tray and ravenously gores the loaf.

Oulette breathes in. “You two did not have to stay here.”

Listra snaps into a sausage. “Where else would you have us stay? The troupe sleeps in their own roving inns. I will not sleep on the ground again. And Marglo here deserves a bed for the effort he made to get you here.”

“And thank you for that, Marglo. If it were not for you I would be dead.”

Marglo eyes her. “And what of the creature? Does it still take your blood?”

Oulette puts a hand to her chest. “That creature no longer suckles me, though I still have a foreboding suspicion we have not seen the last of the creature. Besides, I came down here to talk with both of you. As I was saying, you should not have stayed here on my behalf. Your task was done and you can return to Meadowmount.”

Listra has her ale to her lips but puts down the mug. “Oulette, Master Veris changed his orders. He said to never return to Meadowmount.”

Oulette looks to Marglo. He nods. “He told me as much as I was hitching horses. In fact he told everyone to leave immediately.”

“Why have you not told me this?”

“You were distraught from being cast out and your tiara broken. To add this to your already grieving heart was, I thought, too much.”

Oulette looks into Listra’s eyes. “Is there anything else that I should know about?”

Meekly, Listra says, “No.”

The humbled Oulette stares down into the table. “So you two were cast out because of me?”

“Master Veris said nothing of the sort,” Marglo says. “Oulette, we are just as much on our own as you are. Listra cannot return to her homeland and Master Veris was the one employer I could truly count on. If I thought you were not worth the effort I would have left for Windemere the moment you were out of my sight.”

Oulette squints. “I do not doubt your loyalty. Both of you. I just thought you two had other commitments that would take you away.”

“You two are my friends,” Listra says. She burps in a baritone, then continues. “I will be there for you until you die. And even then I will see to your funeral. I will make sure all of Innsbruck celebrates both your life and death.”

“Especially since you tasted the beer here,” Marglo says behind his mug.

“Especially of that. Oulette, you do not drink enough beer. The hops are exquisite here in the highlands. Why did you want to delay us from reaching Innsbruck.”

Oulette stares back at the mage. “It was your fault! You wanted to eat!”

“We were hungry!”

“You were hungry. Your belly aching made me hungry,” Marglo says.

Oulette rolls her eyes. “Well, we are here and it seems you have made yourself at home. If you insist on accompanying me, then suggest another city that I may reside in.”

“Why? You have beer here.” Listra bites into a loaf of bread, her eyes leveled suspiciously at Oulette.

“I intend to find a new home. Please, listen. I may have just woken up this morning, but since then I have not been at ease here in the city, nor the keep. I wanted to come home to feel the same embrace I had before I left. I sense a change in the air. The people are not as warm or as welcoming as I remembered them.”

“It has been almost a year since you left here,” Marglo says. “You are just not used to the changes because you have been away. Give it a few more days and you will settle. This I am sure.”

“It is not as easy as that, Marglo. This feeling of ‘off-putting’ is digging in and pushing me further from the keep. It is somewhat alleviated now but if I set foot in the keep again I will feel down.”

Listra sits up in her chair and brushes the locks from her face. “What would you do? We know you have trouble with magic, so a duke’s magician you cannot be.”

“I can sew well enough. And cooking is a skill that I can hone over time. I would need a word from Duke Warnau so that I may insert myself in another court. No seemstress would dare take me without a good word.”

Marglo naws on a slice of ham. “His lady would be a better source. What duke or duchess would know of sewing?”

“He is right,” Listra says from behind her unkempt locks. “Besides, you are still well liked around here that they will not put you to sword. And from what I hear the duke will not return until the morrow.”

“That seems so soon. Even a night of dread is not long enough to face his stern gaze.” She looks to her friends and finds confusion. “He is the one who sent me to Master Veris. He expects progress from my studies. What will I say to him now? ‘Although Master Veris has taught me much about the magical arts, I have yet to cast simple spells. On the other hand, I can make men’s arms explode if they break my fragile jewelry.’ I doubt he will think the effort a success.”

“But it was a result.”

“I make candles explode through some uncontrollable flaw.”

“Well, maybe you can cast a different kind of magic.”

“What other magic can there be? Tell me this, my mentor.”

“I do not know, but having that kind of attitude will not help us find it.” Listra reaches out to her friend’s hands. “It does not matter where you will go. I will go with you because I care. Because you are worth it. But we will stay her a bit longer to determine our options.”

“And to take revenge upon the duke’s son,” Marglo says behind his mug.

“And to take revenge upon the duke’s son! I will not stand for the cur’s wily ways!” Another wave of laughter crashes through the tavern.

Oulette sighs as she accepts their counsel. “The both of you are terrible. You are correct, but still terrible.”

Next Chapter: Chapter 2