“Took you long enough.” Marda said. Her infant was fussing, half on the verge of crying and half on the verge of laughing as she bounced him up and down on her hip. “Did you get everything you needed?”

  Gillion closed the door to the townhouse behind him and stepped back out onto the cobbled street. People were still out and about at midday, and everywhere he looked he saw the townsfolk going about their business. The sounds of horses pulling carts and people shouting back and forth at one another rose through the air, and the slight stench of horse excrement made his face twitch.

  “How many more families are there?” He asked, eyeing the infant warily. He hated it when children cried. There was one time in his life that he thought he might have children in the future, but that reality had been lost a long time ago.

  “Three more. Four children went missing in total, you know.” She said. “All in the span of a month.”

  “And everyone knows this?” He dreaded having to go and talk to the rest of the families. Something told him that those conversations would likely turn out the same as one he’d just had.

  “Everyone that lives here, I suppose. And those in the capital that read our requests.”

  Gillion sat on the steps of the townhouse and rubbed his hands together. He looked forward, considering his options, before turning back to Marda. “Tell me what’s going on around town.”

  Marda looked down and thought for a time, rubbing her infant’s back and trying to get him to sleep. “I suppose there’s that caravan out south. Most of the folks around here blame them for the disappearances.”

  “And you don’t?” Gillion asked, squinting up at her.

  “I think a part of me might.” Marda said. “These disappearances really only started when they arrived. But they arrive every year around the same time. If you ask me, a coincidence is more than likely.”

  “And they haven’t been in the town to sell their wares?”

  “Not since the townsfolk chased them out.” Marda bent down and whispered into Gillion’s ear. “They’re southerners, you know. Beach-folk from Littan. Untrustworthy sort.”

  Gillion furrowed his brow and looked up at her. “What makes folks from the south untrustworthy?”

  “The lot of them are brigands, I suppose.” Marda started. “They’re mostly pirates. Or bandits, or thieves. Something like that.”

  “And this caravan out south from here, they’re criminals?” Gillion asked.

  “Haven’t stolen anything yet. But you’d best keep an eye out, I suppose.”

  “You say I suppose a lot.” Gillion said, standing up and brushing the dust from his pants. “Perhaps you aren’t very well read.”

  “I suppose I’m not.” Marda said, annoyed at his comment. “Where must I escort you to next, Vagrant?”

  “Nowhere. My time with you is finished. I will not speak to the remaining families.” Gillion started down the long southern road that led straight into the golden fields of Aglamand. “Their stories will all be the same anyway. I go now to speak to this caravan the town claims caused this issue. They might hold more information.”

  Leaving Marda and her infant to stare after him, Gillion started the long walk out of town.

  It was midday when the caravan finally came into view, and the overhead sun hit the light blue tarps of their covered wagons like the sunlight hit the sea. The slight breeze in the air caused the tarps to flap up and down like waves, and Gillion could even imagine himself sailing on those fabric seas. There were tanned folk out and about, mingling between themselves and their carts, which were set up in multiple circles in the field below where Gillion stood. They had set up a semi-permanent camp there in the golden reeds, complete with dug up fire pits and small huts built around them from the supplies they brought on their long journey from the south. It was almost its own separate town out there. There were enough people for it, dressed in the wide-brimmed hats and head-shawls that the Littani were famous for, and Gillion estimated around a hundred amongst their ranks.

  Gillion stood on a hill a quarter-mile away, watching from a safe distance. These folk did not act like kidnappers, at least, not to the prince spying on them. They simply went about their business as if nothing had changed, as if they were entirely unaffected by the tragedies of Pondfall. Gillion watched a man kiss his wife around a fire pit, he watched children dressed in loose wrappings rush about, he watched women cook by the fires and men laughing to themselves about this or that. Life to the Littani was said to be one giant party, and from their rather jovial demeanor below, Gillion deduced that the stereotype must be true.

  “Amorada.” Gillion started. “My father once spoke of wars fought between my people and the Littani.”

  Indeed. Amorada said, blinking beneath her black cloth. There was a time when the Littani were ruled by a king, and the southern lands knew nothing but ambition.

  “What happened?”

  Your father happened. Lord Haldon used me to defend his home and crush the Littani under his heel, and so he shattered their once united people into clans.

  “What kind of people were they? That woman, Marda, spoke of them as thieves.” Gillion said. “As brigands and criminals. Is this true?”

  There were those amongst them that stole and murdered and lied. Amorada glowed a bit brighter, shining through the cloth as she spoke. But there are those amongst any people who steal and murder and lie. Such is the unfortunate truth of any peoples.

  “Hm.” Gillion grumbled, starting the walk down to the caravan below.

  You grumble too much.

  The Littani people in the caravan spotted him before he even made it all the way down the hill. He was dressed in dark colors, deep browns and blacks that made him extremely visible against the shining golden reeds, and many of them who saw him ran and hid in their carts as the armed man approached. He walked like a beast, shambling through the reeds like a man who stalked the forests of the north, and his eyes shot to every dark corner and closed caravan he saw. His time in the wild had ingrained itself into the once regal man, and only now that he was in civilization did he realize just how much of an effect it must have had. Did he even remember how to walk like a noble? He was taught at some point, decades ago, but all of it was a faded memory for him. Maybe one day he would try to remember it.

  His eyes tracked movement at the top of one of the carts, and caught a glimpse of flowing dark hair before it ducked back out of view. His eyes darted to the opposite side, to where a couple of Littani were crowded around a fire, watching him warily. He glanced ahead, where a woman in her mid-twenties stood directly in front of him, arms crossed. She wore a long red skirt with a brown apron, and her dark hair was tied up in a frizzy ponytail. She possessed the traditional Littani wraps, woven tightly around her arms and legs, and her clothes were tucked into them. She did not tremble or waver as Gillion approached, nor did she move, instead, she stood still until Gillion came to a stop directly in front of her.

  Standing opposed to one another, Gillion towered over this strange woman. She stared up at him with an expression on her face that screamed either judgement or scorn, and for the first time since that night when Govrin the Mule was taken, he felt fear.

  “Hello!” She said, her voice as cheery as the sun reflecting off the reeds. “Who’re you?”

  “…The townsfolk call me Vagrant.” Gillion said, still glaring down into her eyes.

  “That’s not what I asked, hair-man.” She said, reaching up and tugging on his beard. “I asked who you are. Different question.”

  Gillion remained silent for some time, glaring down at her from behind his long bangs. “I am a traveler from the east. I wish to speak to your people about the disappearances in Pondfall.”

  “It’s not a perfect answer, but it’ll do!” She said, breaking the standoff and skipping a few steps away. “Why are you so gloomy, hair-man? It’s a wonderful day!”

  “Gloomy?” Gillion looked down at his hands and noticed that they were balled up into fists. “I am not gloomy. This is just how I am.”

  “If that’s you normally, then I wouldn’t want to see you actually sad!” The woman chortled.

  Gillion released his fists and took a few steps after her. She moved like she was dancing, her long sleeves flowing in the breeze as she skipped this way and that. Their interactions had seemingly eased some of the tension of Gillion’s approach, so some of the other caravaneers had come back out into the open. Gillion wondered whether or not this woman confronted him just so the others would be at ease.

  “Say, how long has it been since you’ve bathed?” She said, still chuckling. “You smell downright terrible.”

  “I wash when it rains.” Gillion said.

  “Pondfall has bathhouses, you know. And we in the caravan have a bathcart. I’m sure papa will be fine with you using it.” She continued to skip along, and Gillion continued to follow. “Say, are you trying to look like a bear?”

  “A bear?” Gillion asked. “Why? Do I resemble one?”

  “You’re about as fat as one and as hairy.” She laughed.

  “Are you always so insulting?”

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  “Are you always so odorous?”

  Gillion stopped, and the woman did as well. He could feel a slight anger rising in his chest, a heat that rose from the depths of his belly to his cheeks, and he gripped Amorada with a strength he reserved only for combat. Then he bellowed.

  “Ha!” He laughed, a loud, echoing, raucous laugh that came from deep within. “You’re funny, woman!”

  “Er, thank you.” She said, surprised. “You laugh loudly.”

  “So I do!” He calmed himself down, breathing deeply to regain his composure. “So I do. I have been on the road for a time, and my traveling companion is not good company.”

  Amorada buzzed on his hip.

  “Where is the trades-master of the caravan? I must speak with him.”

  “You still haven't told me your name.” The woman said.

  “You do not need my name. Tell me where the trades-master is. Now.” Gillion stepped forward, once again standing directly in front of her. “Your words are funny, woman, but my patience is thin.”

  “Ask again politely, and don’t call me woman. It’s disrespectful. My name is Anice.” She said, smiling up at him. She stuck her hand out in front of him, waiting for Gillion to take it and address her properly. “You don’t have very good manners, do you?”

  Gillion stared down at Anice’s smooth hand, pointed directly up at him in waiting. Then he looked down to his own hand, to the dirt caked onto it and the scarring that came from surviving the wild. He brushed his thumbs against the callouses that had formed over the years, callouses that came only from wielding a blade.

  “My hands are unclean.” He said. There was a shame to that, as if admitting it was admitting that he was a prince no longer. “But I apologize, Anice. Will you tell me where your trades-master is?”

  He flinched as she reached down and grabbed his heavy hand, forcing it into hers and shaking it rigorously. “Of course! My father is just this way.”

  Anice let go of her vice grip on Gillion’s hand and whipped around, marching off into the camp and making sure that he followed. She led him between brightly colored blue and purple covered wagons, around deep fire pits and through groups of gathered Littani that spoke of him in their native tongue. Gillion couldn’t understand the things they were saying, but from their looks and the general mood around them when he approached he knew they were talking about him.

  The Littani were a strange people, at least to Gillion. They were tanned folk from the southern coasts, island people that spent their days in the sun and sand, and in their histories they made claims to large swaths of the continent, claiming it to be theirs by right of the Old Song. But these people, these folk gathered in their carts and around fires, they did not seem to share the arrogance of their reputation. They gathered wood, organized their belongings, chastised their children and loved their spouses as any other peoples would do. They sang songs about old legends and in their tongue they wove together epic tales of grandeur so vast and unbelievable that it was sure to bring pride to them as Littani. Where were the criminals that Marda had spoken of? The thieves and liars amongst their ranks that sought only to increase the weight of their pockets? Gillion could see none amongst them. Perhaps they were hiding.

  Gillion and Anice approached a large red tent, secured to the ground by hammered-in stakes and red rope that seemed to be painted or dyed. The tent itself was supported by a large pole at its center, and the whole thing was larger than some of the buildings back in Pondfall. A weak blue light came from inside the tent-flaps, and Gillion could hear the sound of chanting coming from the interior. He furrowed his brow and looked to Anice, who looked back confusedly.

  “What is it?” She said, reading his expression. “Catch a whiff of your upper lip?”

  “You didn’t tell me there were sorcerers in your camp.” Gillion said.

  “I didn’t think it was necessary.” Anice responded, glancing toward the tent. “You’re here to ask for information, aren’t you? Well, my father is inside. Don’t touch anything.”

  “Have him come out to me. I would sooner step into a den of vipers than the hut of an Old Song sorcerer.” Gillion stood now with his hand firmly on Amorada’s handle. She glowed slightly, buzzing in his grip as he stood ready to attack whatever threat came from within.

  Anice glanced down at Gillion’s sword, then to the expression on his face. Sighing, she lifted the flaps of the tent and ducked inside. Gillion watched her shadow move across the floor, blocking some of that dim blue light as she crossed the gap in the tent flaps, then he heard her speaking to someone inside. It was a few minutes before she returned, and she was alone when she once again held open the flap of the tent.

  “If I give you news you don’t want to hear, Vagrant, will you use that sword on me?” She asked, slightly apprehensive. “I’m unarmed, you know.”

  “Will you turn me into a cat?” Gillion asked. “Or some other unnatural thing?”

  “No, swordsman. We won’t turn you into a cat.” Anice waved him inside and slipped once more behind the tent flaps, her shadow quickly disappearing into the tent. “He will only speak to you if you come in. Otherwise, you have to leave the camp.”

  Gillion lingered at the entrance, weighing his options. On one hand, he could enter the home of a sorcerer, and risk losing his life to forces he barely understood. On the other hand, this sorcerer could give him the answers he’d been looking for. If he didn’t go into the tent, could he really say he did his best? Could he face that girl, Camola, and say that he absolutely couldn’t find her brother?

  Steeling himself, he lifted the flap of the tent and ducked inside. Immediately he was struck by the intense smell of herbal incense, an almost floral scent that struck the insides of his nose like a blacksmith pounding an anvil. He had to duck and dodge his way around hanging bones and beads, and he nearly tripped over a large gourd that was lying on the floor. Strange glyphs were carved into small idols and knickknacks littered about the floor, and Gillion swallowed hard as he set his eyes upon the den of a sorcerer.

  The dim blue light emanated from a large stone crushing wheel that sat at the back of the tent, and hunched over it sat an older man that resembled a ghoul more than a human. His skin was shrunken and stretched over his bones, and his lidless eyes seemed perpetually dry. Apart from his ghoulish skin the man sported a magnificent mustache, silver and curled tightly around his cheeks in large swirls that made it seem like he had four eyes instead of two. He wore the garb of a traditional Littani, flowing purples and blues in strips of cloth wrapped around his form, and a large cone-shaped hat that sat upon his head.

  The older man stopped grinding the wheel when Gillion came inside. His lips cracked and lifted above his yellowed teeth as a wide smile crawled its way across his face. The man reeked of Old Song. Gillion grimaced and approached, taking notes of Anice standing just behind him.

  “Greetings, sorcerer scum.” Gillion started, slamming down to a seated position in front of the old sorcerer.

  “Greetings, your majesty.” The old man said. “Wonderful day, no?”

  Gillion shot forward and grabbed the man by the throat, snarling as the old sorcerer cackled in his grip. “Still your tongue, elder. You know not who you toy with.”

  “Still my tongue?” The sorcerer said, still cackling. “Still my tongue…”

  The sorcerer closed his mouth and started to tremble. Gillion watched as the old man’s jaw began to move, shifting and swaying as if he were moving a large ball around in his mouth, before his eyes rolled back and his mouth dropped open. A hand shot out from the depths of his throat, dripping in clear mucus and black as the night, causing Gillion to drop the old man as it clawed through the air at him.

  A deep, guttural slurping came from the old man’s now distended skull, and Gillion reached down and ripped Amorada from the sheath. She glowed brighter now that she was in her full glory, and her shining light caused the sorcerer to hesitate as he came forward.

  Gillion raised Amorada to strike the old man down, but faltered when he saw Anice step toward the monstrous old sorcerer.

  “Father!” Anice pulled her hand back and smacked the old sorcerer on the back of the head, causing the hand to retreat back into his mouth with a wet, slimy gulp. “That’s enough! This man is here to find the children.”

  “The children?” The old sorcerer said, rubbing his throat.

  Gillion held Amorada out, ready to strike. He could feel her vibrating in his hand, he could feel her anticipation for a fight almost brimming over into his hands, but he did not move. The old sorcerer looked at him and smiled once more, this time kinder than the last, and the friendliness emanating from it caused Gillion to slowly lower his blade.

  “It was joke, hair-man!” The sorcerer said, chuckling. “Just joke! No need for blades and battle.”

  “I would know what foul name you claim, sorcerer.” Gillion repositioned himself to sit on the floor, though he never resheathed Amorada.

  “My name? Absalt! Absalt am I, you see?” The old man giggled and turned back to his work, beginning to turn the large hand crank on the side that caused the stone crushing wheel to begin grinding once more. That floral scent once again wafted through the air, and the herbs beneath the wheel shedded a dim light that casted a sky-blue haze over the interior of the tent. “And your name? What name are you?”

  “You know my name, sorcerer.” Gillion said, angrily looking down to the ground beneath him. “But the townsfolk call me Vagrant. I would have you do the same.”

  “Children, then?” Absalt said. “Children of Pondfall? Kids are gone?”

  “Yes, father, the kids are gone.” Anice said, rolling her eyes. “That’s the whole reason we’re not in town yet.”

  “And this hair-man thinks we took them?”

  “No.” Gillion said. “I do not think you took the children. There is a monster that roams the woods to the east of Pondfall. It attacked me in the night and stole my beloved mule.” He pulled the severed finger out of his satchel and placed it on the ground in front of Absalt, who stopped grinding the herbs to stare down at it. “But I thought you folk might know something about it.”

  “Why do you say this?” Absalt said, poking at it.

  “You have lived on the outskirts of Pondfall for as long as the creature has stalked the forest. I thought it may have attacked your folk as well.” Gillion looked over to the wheel, and then to the herbs within, which still glowed. “I see now why you haven’t been attacked.”

  “Truth spoken, hair-man. I know your words.” The sorcerer picked up the finger and turned it over in his hands. “You cut this thing?”

  “I did.”

  “You use a powerful weapon.” He inspected the cut, running his finger along the blackened edge where the fat, sausage-like part of the finger connected to the knuckle. He saw the bone within, stained the same grayish black as the rest of it. “Not many men can cut this thing as you have.”

  The sorcerer set the finger back down in front of Gillion.

  “You are right, hair-man. There is offspring of Old Song nearby. Me and my people can smell it through the trees.” Absalt grabbed some of the herbs and rubbed it into his gums, smacking his lips as he did so. “Toward the land of your fathers.”

  “You can smell it?” Gillion said, narrowing his eyes. “With your nose?”

  “It has strange scent, no? It is smelled more than seen, no?” Absalt said, chuckling. He waved his hand through the air, pushing the smoke back and forth. “Like now. Herbs and incense. Glyphs and wheel. Old Song, fully.”

  “I can smell the herbs, sorcerer, but not the magic in it.”

  “Then your nose has not opened.” Absalt reached up and pinched his nose, smiling a crooked yellow smile at the prince across from him. “You easterners. Your lands are devoid of it, so you cannot smell it. So goes the world.”

  Gillion looked down to Amorada, whose handle glowed dimly. “And this scent is to the east? In the forest?”

  “Indeed.” He smiled widely, looking at Gillion with those dry, unblinking eyes.

  Then Absalt shot up from his place near the wheel and sprinted over to the other side of the room, where he grabbed a hammer and chisel and began to carve a glyph into a stone he found lying on the ground. Gillion watched as the sorcerer chuckled and mumbled to himself, making promises and bargains with the rock as he carved the sigil for ‘friend’ into it.

  “Sorcerers. All mad.” Gillion said, rising from his seat. He turned to face Anice, who looked at him confusedly. “I will need a guide through the forest. Especially if your people can smell Old Song.”

  “I will ask someone for you.” Anice said, smiling.

  “No. You will escort me.” Gillion turned to leave, sheathing Amorada and wrapping the black cloth back around her handle.

  “What?!” Anice said. “Why?! I don’t want to go into some dreary forest! It gives me the chills!”

  “You are his daughter.” Gillion said, pointing a thumb back at Absalt. “If I were to take you into the forest, I doubt he would allow you to walk in without some form of protection. Your presence may be enough to ward off whatever Old Song profaneries exist there.” Gillion turned and started walking toward the tent’s entrance, pulling back the flaps and stepping outside. “And you made me laugh. I would enjoy your company greatly.”