Dreadaeleon’s glance flitted down to the man’s wrist and the wrapped leather gauntlet that hadn’t been there before. He caught a glimpse of Bralston’s eyes, narrowed to irate scrutiny, upon the glove.

‘The spoils?’ he asked.

‘This?’ Denaos held it up, admiring it. ‘I prefer to call it an honest day’s pay for an honest night’s work.’

‘Hardly anything honest about it,’ Dreadaeleon said. ‘You never once stepped out to help us on the deck. You didn’t even give us the signal that you were safe.’

‘And you sank the ship without making certain we were safe,’ Denaos said, shrugging. ‘I figure we’re even. Everyone made it out unscathed, anyway.’

‘Not Lenk,’ Asper pointed out.

They fell silent at that.

It was only when they had returned to the shore, the ship long since sank, that anyone noticed the absence of their silver-haired companion. Bralston and Dreadaeleon had met up with Denaos standing over a blanket-wrapped Asper. Togu, having been picked up by Hongwe, stood beside the Gonwa nearby. Gariath and Kataria came to join them, without a word from either of them, only a few moments later. They collected their clothes from the offering to Sheraptus and left in silence.

Lenk hadn’t emerged until early the following morning.

No one had searched for him.

Dreadaeleon told himself now, as he had then, that it was not his fault. Searching for Lenk would have been pointless in dark water, if it was even an option. It was only when they had all stood upon the beach that he realised he had left Lenk behind. He suspected, if their sunken expressions were any indication, the others also shared similar guilts.

Yet, he didn’t ask. Nor did anyone ask him. There had been no words exchanged between them. Each companion’s expression suggested that even the meagerest of sounds would be agony. And so they had parted, the sight of each other suddenly too much to bear, without even asking about their lost companion.

And then, Lenk had come crawling back into the village the next morning, without a word, without a sword, and with a heavy gash in his shoulder. He sat himself before Asper, whose shock was abolished long enough to stitch up his wound.

After that, he had staggered to Togu’s hut, where his companions and the chieftain stood assembled. He, like the others, didn’t think to ask how Togu had survived after being hurled bound into the ocean. Instead, he stared for an eternity into bulbous yellow eyes that refused to meet his own before he looked up at the creature’s hut and uttered the words.

‘Gevrauch’s debt.’

They had taken to the task with varying amounts of enthusiasm. Yet even Asper did it without complaint or scorn, helping herself to what medicine Togu had stockpiled. Kataria had taken arrows; Lenk had taken a shirt of mail; Dreadaeleon had taken a new pair of boots; Denaos had taken everything else. Gariath acknowledged that his grudge against Togu wasn’t as great as theirs, so he contented himself with urinating on the lizardman’s throne.

When the torch had come out, it was Hongwe who had protested and it was Togu who had gently silenced him. Perhaps the weight of his guilt demanded the resignation, or perhaps he was pleased that the companions limited their revenge to looting and burning. The lizardman had stared at his house burning until Lenk had whispered a few unheard words and stalked off.

Togu had said only ten words.

‘All that grows on Teji,’ he whispered, ‘once grew in that house.’

And he had sighed and he had shuffled down the stone circles as the last fragrances of flowers were consumed by fire.

Granted, there were a few odd glances shot in the direction of their beloved leader’s smouldering hut. The Owauku had yet to ask a question as to why it was burning. Of course, Dreadaeleon acknowledged, they had yet to come within fifteen feet of the companions, let alone ask anything.

‘Any idea where Lenk went?’ Dreadaeleon asked.

‘No clue, no cares,’ Denaos replied. ‘Maybe he wanted to try on that armour he picked up. It looked nice. Might keep him from getting cut up again.’

‘That’s a concern amongst you?’

Bralston spoke with a sudden depth to his voice that none had heard before. The question commanded their attentions instantly.

‘Cutting?’ the Librarian pressed, his hard stare never leaving Denaos.

‘Hazard of the job,’ Denaos replied coolly.

‘Adventuring is not considered a job,’ Bralston said. ‘It is long thought to be the last haven of scum, criminals and murderers.’

It wasn’t the first time those three words had been used to describe the profession. And by Dreadaeleon’s count, that was around the sixty-fifth time those three words had been used to describe Denaos specifically. The rogue had never had anything for the accusation beyond smiles and snidery.

The sixty-sixth time, however, he merely stared back at the Librarian.

‘From Cier’Djaal?’ he asked.

‘It is with pride that I confirm that,’ Bralston replied.

‘Nice city,’ the rogue said.

‘It once was.’

It was there for an instant, the briefest twitches across their faces, perfectly synchronised. Dreadaeleon watched their reactions with a quirked brow, as unsure as to what had just happened between them as he was unsure why Denaos turned and stalked off towards the forest.

‘What was that about?’ Dreadaeleon asked the Librarian.

‘I don’t like the look of that man,’ Bralston replied, following the rogue’s shrinking form.

‘I think that’s intentional on his part.’

‘You are mistaken.’ Bralston’s voice and eyes carried an edge. ‘That is a man too comfortable in masks. What we see is what he wants us to see. What he doesn’t want us to see is what lurks beneath. A coward … a predator.’ He looked to the forest and his voice became a spiteful razor. ‘A murderer.’

Dreadaeleon suspected absently he should speak up in defence of his companion. He did not, though; mostly because he had often thought the same thing about the rogue. Besides, before he could open his mouth, someone else beat him to it.

‘And what would you know of predators?’ For the first time, Asper turned to them. Even if her eyes had left the fire, however, the angry flames had not left her eyes. ‘What would you know of him?’

‘I have …’ Bralston hesitated, apparently taken aback by the outburst, ‘seen his type before.’

‘And there is no lack of types to be used in deciding who is who, is there, Librarian?’ she pressed, stepping towards him.

Dreadaeleon felt vaguely astonished at the audacity. Even if she weren’t facing a man who had aptly proven his penchant for and ability to turn things into ash, he was still a powerful physical specimen, standing nearly as tall as Gariath. Beyond that, he was a Librarian, an agent of the Venarium charged with destroying all threats to the Laws of Venarie and with extreme leeway in what he deemed threatening.

‘Asper,’ he said softly, ‘he didn’t mean—’

‘No, you great thinkers of the Venarium just have the answer to everything, don’t you? You can just look at a man and decide what he is, using those gigantic fat heads of yours to summarise an entire person in a few words.’ She scowled up at him. ‘Such as the type of person who, with the kind of power that makes him feel entitled enough to look down on another person, leaves other people to suffer in some ship’s cabin when he could just as easily lift a finger and help, but that’s just not fiery enough, is it?’

He blinked, glancing from her to a shrugging Dreadaeleon, then back.

‘Granted,’ she said coldly, ‘I could sum up that type of man in a single word.’ She shoved past him, stalking off and muttering under her breath. ‘But I’m far too polite.’

Bralston’s gaze lingered on her with equal intent as it had on Denaos as she skulked away. Dreadaeleon, too, followed her with a different sort of intent on his face and a different thought in his head.

Something’s wrong, he thought, immediately scolding himself. Well, obviously, you moron. She was held captive for how long? And you didn’t move to help her? Well, you stuck to the plan. Denaos was supposed to help her …

But you’re the wizard. You’ve got the power. It should have been you to help her. You could have done something … right? Right. You were feeling strong, then. Incredibly so. You didn’t even need the stone, or anything else. You recovered. But how?

She glanced over her shoulder, shooting him a pained expression. His eyes widened as the realisation struck him fiercely across the face.

Of course. It was her. It was all for her, wasn’t it? That’s what you’ve been doing wrong. You keep thinking of power for power’s sake, for the Laws, for the Venarium, for yourself, and all it’s gotten you is flaming urine and acid vomit. Those were pretty impressive, of course, but they weren’t power. You did something for her, though, and you recovered.

Purpose. That’s what’s been missing, of course! It’s not nearly as mystical as it sounds, either. A focus is often used in magical exercises, why not in magical practice? Why couldn’t another person lend a wizard their strength, theoretically, just by existing? By focusing on them, everything could come so much easier. This is brilliant! You’ve got tell Bralston! Better yet, tell …

He emerged from his own thoughts to find a long, barren stretch of sand.

‘Where’d she go?’ he asked, frowning.

‘To tend to her own wounds, I suspect,’ Bralston said, sighing. ‘Women frequently do so in privacy.’

‘But … she wasn’t hurt. Denaos got her out unscathed.’

Bralston turned to regard Dreadaeleon with a look that, in the few brief hours he had known the Librarian he had learned to dread. It was a cautious, cold scrutiny, better used on items lining a merchant’s stall than a person. And as though Bralston were appraising merchandise, Dreadaeleon got the very ominous feeling that the Librarian was considering if he was worth the price.

Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn. He swallowed hard, fighting his nerves’ insistence that he would feel better once he vomited on himself. He’s staring at you again. Quick, say something to throw him off!

‘So …’ Dreadaeleon said, grinning meekly. ‘Did … did you want a loincloth?’

WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?

‘You concern me, concomitant,’ Bralston replied.

‘Well, it’s just that it’s sort of the common style around here, and we were offered, or rather forced when we—’

‘Believe it or not, your crippling lack of vocal judgement is not the issue,’ the Librarian said. He turned on his heel and began walking down towards the village, his very posture demanding that Dreadaeleon follow. ‘You have been amongst these … adventurers for how long, concomitant?’

‘Roughly a year.’

‘And you can still recall the lessons that enabled the practice of your studies?’

‘My master taught me much before I left him.’

‘Ah, so you are tutored instead of academy-trained.’ Bralston sniffed. ‘There are few like you anymore. Tell me, did your master teach you the Pillars?’

‘Of course. We covered them the moment I set foot in his study: Fire, Cold, Electricity, Force …’

‘Those are the Four Noble Schools,’ Bralston replied, ‘the ends of what the Pillars are taught to control and use properly.’

‘Aren’t … aren’t they the same thing?’

Bralston paused, fixing that scrutinising stare upon Dreadaeleon.

‘This is the problem,’ he said, the despair evident in his voice, if not his eyes. ‘Venarie is a subject of law. Law is a matter of discipline. Discipline is made possible by the Pillars.’ He counted them off on his fingers. ‘Rationality, Judgement and …’

There was a long pause before Dreadaeleon realised he was awaiting an answer. The boy shook his head and Bralston’s eyes narrowed.

‘Perception, concomitant. Rationality grants us the clarity to recognise threats and potential alike. Judgement is what permits us to act as we must in the name of the Laws. Perception bridges the two, acting as recognition of the situation and rationalisation of the proper response.’

‘How can my perception be called into doubt?’ Dreadaeleon replied. ‘Did you see what I did last night? Who else would have thought to destroy a heretic by bringing a giant sea snake down on him?’

While Dreadaeleon couldn’t see the childishly eager smile spreading across his face, he was made instantly aware of it by Bralston’s quickly deepening frown.

‘It’s not about spitting ice and hurling fire,’ the Librarian said. ‘The difference between using them as a means of enforcing the Laws and using them as means in themselves is—’

‘Perception?’

‘The difference between a member of the Venarium and a heretic,’ Bralston corrected. ‘Your time amongst these adventurers is what concerns me. How much have you done to enforce the Laws?’

‘I’ve … I’ve been enforcing them.’ Dreadaeleon rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I was the first one to encounter the longfaces.’

‘And yet you continued on with your companions instead of notifying the Venarium of their violation instantly?’

‘There wasn’t enough time.’

‘Time is a hindrance of the unenlightened. Wizards cannot claim the handicap.’

‘But I’ve done so much. The tome we’re chasing is—’

‘This tome,’ Bralston replied. ‘You say a priest sent you after it?’

‘Well, he hired us to—’

‘Gold is for the unenlightened, as is religious zealotry. We are concerned with higher matters. Venarie is as vast as it is ever changing. In exchange for the gifts we have, we dedicate our lives to furthering knowledge, to understanding how we, as vessels, relate to this. How have you done that, concomitant?’