In half an hour, Tristian showed up at the shooting range. Guelder and Hazel were already there, as were Regongar and Octavia, pretending to practise their coordinated spellcasting, but instead mostly giggling or leering at the baroness. Following a short conversation with Hazel, the couple left the range and moved over to the training grounds, ensuring a level of privacy for Guelder. Hazel, however, stayed close. They settled down just out of earshot (although, in case of elves, Tristian found it hard to estimate how far their earshot actually reached), and busied themself with the meticulous work of arrow maintenance, while scanning their surroundings time and again, as usual. A bored Pangur joined them and made himself comfortable at their feet.

  Tristian didn't approach the baroness immediately. For a little while, he stood back and watched her practise her aim against a bale of hay. Her leather armour lay in a heap on the ground, on top of her neatly folded cloak. She was wearing a sleeveless shirt and a pair of tight-fitting trousers, impatient with too much clothing in the late summer heat.

  It wasn't hard to see how disturbed and unfocused she was. Her target practice consisted of what Hazel liked to call a "missfest". The subtle play of lean muscles under her skin offered some much-needed distraction to Tristian. And her scars. To his surprise, he found himself counting them. He already knew about the burn in her cleavage that she wore like a special mark under that hateful amulet of hers, ever since her incident with the Stag Lord's bandits. But he'd never noticed before that there were multiple cuts across her left wrist. Memories of tough adolescent years, or of a desperate attempt to take her own life? Did the composed surface hide dark secrets, inner demons gnawing at her soul, starved for redemption? If so, Tristian would be there for her and—

  By the Dawnflower, what was he thinking? Would saving Guelder be any easier than saving Jenna Tannersen, at which he'd royally failed?

  "Thanks for coming, Tristian," said the baroness, dispelling Tristian's fantasy of leading her gently and compassionately along the rocky path of salvation.

  "So many scars," muttered his lips, moving on their own. He hated himself. Why couldn't he just say she was beautiful, like a normal person? Not that it would be appropriate, but still.

  The baroness looked bitter and exhausted. She obviously didn’t choose to work out right now, after returning from a lengthy expedition, because her body craved for even more exertion. However, his blunder brought a slight smile upon her face. He smiled back, lowering his eyes in embarrassment.

  "I might not always see eye to eye with Amiri, but we do share some basic values. This is one of them. Your scars are your history. Your triumphs, failures and survivals, all written into your flesh. If you have any, wear them proudly. Anyway, feel free to grab a crossbow and join me. We can both use some practice."

  Tristian bowed his head in gratitude and obeyed. He was flattered that the baroness had kept his ranged weapon preference in mind. Even a crossbow was better than to show off his utter lack of archery skills in front of an elf (in fact, two elves), like a complete idiot.

  "I’m at your service, Your Grace. Hazel already updated me on the outcome of the expedition."

  Guelder nocked another arrow, avoiding Tristian's eyes even more carefully than usual. Her voice was bitter to the point of breaking.

  "We took turns carrying the poor kid's body back to town, and now his mother is gone, too. And all those lizardfolk we murdered for no good reason whatsoever. Thorns and brambles, I am trying to make sense of this land, and I am failing so miserably!"

  She released. The arrow chipped the upper edge of the bale.

  Tristian realised that the task of conducting the double funeral would likely fall to him. The church of Pharasma, most suited to provide guidance in matters of birth and death, had no foothold in Tuskdale as yet (and if Jaethal had her way, it probably never would). Erastil and his followers despised suicide, so Jhod Kavken would refuse to handle this case, and Harrim's gloomy thoughts would offer little comfort for those left behind. That left them with Tristian. And meanwhile he had to keep Guelder going and help her deal with her guilt and remorse.

  "How can I help, Your Grace?"

  She lowered her bow and turned to face him.

  "In multiple ways. As my companion, as my Councillor, and as my religion expert."

  Paradoxically, religion was a topic where Tristian had to tread lightly. The baroness didn’t seem to be a big fan of religion in general, despite being surrounded by representatives of four different deities. She was never disrespectful towards any supernatural power, not even towards Jaethal's revolting goddess, but nobody ever heard her invoke any of them by name or even swear by them, either. Tristian secretly hoped to eventually convert the baroness to Sarenrae. She was perfect Sarenite material, selfless and compassionate by nature, always ready to offer a second chance, but also fierce in battle whenever the situation demanded. And if he succeeded in guiding this lost soul to Sarenrae, maybe the goddess would… no, that was not how it worked.

  "Do you remember that empowered will-o'-wisp at the Old Sycamore?"

  Tristian nodded, shuddering. That combat had been unforgettable, what with everyone running to and fro like poisoned mice, defenceless against fear attacks, Harrim landing a hit with a cold iron dagger once every fifteen minutes, Regongar watching with big incredulous eyes how his magic missiles failed to work, despite what the bestiary told about this type of foe. Thankfully, the monstrosity had been bound to an abandoned campsite and couldn't pursue them in their shameful retreat.

  "We will have to revisit the place," continued the baroness, "summon that monstrosity once again, and kick its ugly mug into next week. Now that I saw what these creatures are capable of, I cannot let the kobolds and mites try and handle it on their own. We encountered two of its ilk during our expedition. One on the island of Lake Candlemere, the other not far from there, in the village of the lizardfolk tribe that captured Tig after he fled from home. The Candlemere one took control of an adventurer, turned him against his companions, and made him facilitate its passage to our plane."

  That answered the question of what had befallen the esteemed Willas Gunderson's expedition, and based on his own experience with the fellow, Tristian also had an idea why he had been encouraged to go treasure-hunting to someplace different, far, far away from here. The cleric nodded, waiting for the baroness to continue.

  "The other one in the lizardfolk village was posing as the spirit of a tribal ancestor. It made the tribe work towards their own extinction, all the while feasting upon their fear and uncertainty. Alas, by the time I put two and two together, it was too late. We had already killed the chieftain and many of his entourage, and by doing so, we unwittingly increased the power of the spirit. Our victory came at a terrible price."

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  Struggling to stay strong in the face of guilt and grief, she released three quick shots at the bale. None of them hit true.

  Tristian fumbled for the script in his head that he generally used to offer solace in similar situations.

  "I can see your heart is broken, Your Grace. You've seen and done horrible things. Still, facing our mistakes and learning from them is what allows us to grow."

  The baroness swallowed to keep her voice steady.

  "I reckon guilt is something I must learn to live with. As to learning from my mistakes—well, this is why I summoned you here."

  Annoyed by her ponytail, she removed the clip from her hair and tucked it into her pocket. Little did she know that Tristian was wearing her previous hairclip under his hood. He treasured it ever since that party night at Oleg's trading post. And now he found himself fascinated by a tress of hair stuck to her neck, actively fighting back the urge to gently stroke it back in place. He felt like a moron. This was a serious conversation, and he was distracted by trifles like that. He raised the cocked crossbow to his shoulder and fired a bolt, just out of courtesy and to keep his eyes occupied. It whizzed off above the bale.

  "This quest," said the baroness, "was rooted in a broader issue that must affect many families in the barony. I mean, why would a mother kick her child out over a spilt bowl of bread dough, if not because she is stretched so thin that she snaps at the smallest issue? Society rests on families, and families need physically and mentally healthy mothers. The state must help ease their burdens. I need you to team up with Valerie and do some brainstorming on a state-subsidised elementary education and childcare system. And also an orphanage. When you have a preliminary plan, involve Hazel for cost estimates."

  "A daring idea, Your Grace, but you're right, we must start somewhere. Thank you for caring for your smallest and most vulnerable subjects."

  "That is what rulership is all about, is it not? Also, I need your knowledge of lore. That evil spirit in the lizardfolk village said it served a great power of the First World. And we have seen two more of its kind here in the Stolen Lands, all of them feeding off fear and attacking with electricity, like normal will-o'-wisps, but also vulnerable to cold iron, like denizens of the First World. I am starting to think that, on top of the remaining trolls and bandits, we have a fey situation as well."

  Guelder inadvertently put her wayward tress back to where it belonged, freeing up a significant part of Tristian's brain capacity. Now his fingers found his rosary to do some fidgeting instead. He'd given up on the crossbow after that one shot, afraid that he might actually hit something or someone.

  "What do you mean, Your Grace?" he asked.

  "Stop that Your Grace thing, please," said Guelder, a little sharply. "You know my name. I am still the same random adventurer who stared into your face when you came to at the Temple of the Elk."

  The priest answered with a shy smile. That moment was one of his fondest memories, even if he'd immediately made a fool of himself. A pinch of bliss, forbidden on so many levels, and still something to be cherished. A beautiful face radiating compassion at him, exactly matching the description he’d received from his mistress. She is the one destined to defeat the Stag Lord. Wait for her here. Join her team. Get as close to her as possible, maybe even closer. Support her as best you can, and stay tuned for further instructions. Oh, and make sure to stay alive until she arrives. Good luck, have fun!

  He woke from his reverie to Guelder waving her hand in front of his eyes.

  "Tristian? Are you still with me?"

  "Sorry, Guelder. I'm listening."

  "Do you not think these so-called curses, popping up all over the land, can be simply the result of interactions between the world of the fey and the mortal plane?"

  She released her next arrow and burst into incredulous, triumphant laughter. She hit whatever a bale of hay had for a bullseye.

  Tristian gave her an appreciative look, and not only for the accurate hit. Even in the deepest pit of guilt, she wanted no consolation but answers, progress and solutions. And she was dangerously close to getting an answer. He began to understand why this woman had been deemed a worthy opponent of the dreaded Stag Lord, and a much better choice as a ruler of the Stolen Lands.

  "An idea worthy of consideration, to be sure," he said cautiously.

  "How familiar are you with First World lore?"

  "Alas, not really."

  "Oh." Guelder sounded a little disappointed. "I have picked up some knowledge in the Embeth Forest, but this place has a very different feel to it. I wish I had managed to save Professor Narthropple from untimely death. I am told the First World was one of his numerous research topics. Anyway, Tristian, please keep this possibility in mind whenever you happen to be studying those 'curses'. Perhaps you will find a pattern that could help me understand this land better. Keep it confidential, though. If Nightvale has such an intense fey activity, I want them and us to coexist in peace, based on mutual goodwill and an open-minded approach. I firmly believe that if the kobolds and mites can live side by side under the Old Sycamore, it is possible for us, too."

  "Do you?" blurted out Tristian without thinking.

  "Yes. This is a hill I am ready to die on."

  Tristian liked to think he was not superstitious, but somehow it felt disturbingly probable that, sooner or later, the baroness would actually die on some hill (or in a cave, ravine or swamp) due to this conviction of hers.

  "And it goes without saying that I expect you to share your results with me immediately."

  "Of course, Guelder. Thanks for your insight."

  "By the way, I intend to obtain more information on this topic when I finally make it to the Verdant Chambers. The Guardian of the Bloom promised to tell me the full story of her dream garden and how it was destroyed. She might have more stories to share. Perhaps she will even tell me what exactly the Bloom is."

  Seeing how the baroness was looking forward to this encounter, a cloud of worries passed over Tristian’s face. He was not supposed to voice them, and he was not even sure if his gut feeling was right, but he just couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

  "I… hope it will go according to plan," he stuttered, forcing himself to look at Guelder. "But… please do take care. The roads are still not safe, and… and there might be things… or even people… who are not what they seem… Never mind. If you excuse me, I would like to set to work on the childcare project immediately."

  "All right, Tristian. You are dismissed for today. Tomorrow we will be heading to the Old Sycamore to take care of that will-o'-wisp, so make sure to prepare Remove Fear and Protection from Electricity."

  Flustered, he put the crossbow back on the weapon rack, and left the shooting range. There went another opportunity to get as close to her as he was supposed to. He just couldn't do it. His gut told him it was very, very wrong, but now he found himself yearning for it to happen regardless. He promised himself that if she took the initiative, he would not resist. He would let himself be carried by the tide. He was good at that, maybe even better than at healing.

  So Tristian hurried away to commence with his brainstorming on his task. Perhaps that would help channel his thoughts into an appropriate direction.