The witch called up, adopting an accent Tildy had not heard before. “I am Ellethen Longbranch of Wayfahren, and this is my daughter Tildeneth and our companion Billious. We were traveling to Traybend in the east but have found the road too dangerous for an old women and children.” Marklin stirred at this, but Tildy shushed him. “We beg sanctuary and guidance from your lord and master, the Baron Stoneward, loyal servant of the realm of Empyrelia, for we bring news of a roaming army at your doorstep.”

 “Our lord baron is not in Southershard at present, dear lady, and we would normally not allow such wildlings as yourselves to enter the beyond,” replied the captain, his voice clearly conveying his low opinion of them, “but your coming was told to us by the castellan, and he bade me to let you through.” He called down, “Lift the bars and throw wide the gates!”

They heard thudding beyond the heavy doors, followed by clanking chains that operated them. A large bonfire flared beyond, and the smell of roasting meat whetted their appetites. The witch gestured them forward and they were greeted by the captain and two men-at-arms. Tildy noted all the people wore mismatched armor, well-polished but dented and aged. The captain’s armor bore fringes of white fur and his breastplate displayed a bear’s head outlined in blue. It matched the color of his eyes, Tildy noted with a blush.

* * * * *

“I am Captain Stormshere, Commander of the outer defense. It appears you ventured into the wild much unprepared.” He looked pointedly at Tildy and Marklin, as he chastised the witch, “You must be mad to bring children on this journey.”

Outraged, Tildy opened her mouth, but her adoptive mother was faster. “Not quite mad, or perhaps, not mad enough!” she cackled, witchlike. “But the world we left behind is more dangerous! We fled our homes and sought sanctuary in Traybend, or perhaps beyond that, across the river Dandolen. An army of Eslavanaash nearly caught us, and we are here to beg for protection.”

The captain shook his head, blonde hair swaying with the motion. “We have heard such outlandish tales a’plenty, but no proofs of any creature of dark fable have we seen. You are likely mistaken, though I deem your fear is true.” He indicated they should follow him through the gate. As they passed, his armed escort followed. Too closely, Tildy thought as the doors clanked shut behind them. The man continued. “Nevertheless, the castellan Fillofillo said you need not beg.”

The witch raised an eyebrow. “I had heard your castellan was an Obsequiant.”

He nodded. “If you are familiar with their unique names, you are familiar with their unusual speech and stranger abilities?” Tildy’s ears perked up at this.

“I am. I served Lord Stalwort of Brighthearth Keep many years ago and he had such a person in his employ.”

The captain gawked in amazement. “You are indeed better journeyed than I first suspected, though I recognized your northern accent! You served a worthy man indeed in Lord Stalwort. His death was a great blow to the Last Monarchs, may Kher Gargan pay for that in frozen blood.”

“Ah, the tales I could tell!” said the witch with a wistful tone, “but I suspect you have more important duties than entertaining an old woman, my young captain.”

Reluctantly, the man agreed. “Aye, though it has many years since I’ve walked the frostgrasses of my home. Would that we could trade tales by the fire.”

“Tell me, Captain from the winterlands,” the witch said, pleased to have won him over. “Will your lord be gone long?”

“I could not say. He has been absent some weeks. Truth be told,” he added, lowering his voice, “the lady baroness must be worried. He is overdue. Although she is married to the Rock of Southershard, she is but a flower amongst the stones.” He paused, his face growing taut. “I say too much, but I seek to advise a visitor, as is the custom of the ‘hearth.”

“Hmm,” the witch replied. Tildy could tell her adoptive mother found this intriguing. She also wondered what kind of fearful woman they would meet in the court of the Shard.

The captain summoned a man on horseback and ordered him to escort them to gates of Southershard. “My lord Fillofillo will greet you. I hope you may bring some assistance to our noble baron. Fare you well, friend of Brighthearth.”

* * * * *

They said their good-byes and continued onwards as Marklin looked longingly at the meat cooking over the fire. “How did the castellan hear of our coming?” Tildy asked.

“Obsequiants have a way of knowing things,” the witch said, as though that were sufficient explanation, “even the strong-minded Elves are wary around them. It makes them excellent castellans because they anticipate their lords’ needs. It also makes the adult males hunted because they are the only ones who carry the ability.”

“Hunted?”

“Imagine one such person in the hands of your enemy. He might discern much about your plans. Better to eliminate the possibility of a threat, lest it become a real danger. Or so the thinking goes,” the witch added, showing her disdain for such reasoning.

“I don’t think like that,” Tildy said.

“I doubt you ever will, for those kinds of people are torturers and worse, with minds bereft of conscience. They hunt more than the males, just to be sure.” Her face darkened and she was dreadful to behold.

“Did you really know that Lord Stalwort?” Marklin interrupted, completely unaware of the serious conversation.

The witch shook her head and spoke softly so their escort couldn’t hear. “By reputation only. I recognized the captain’s accent and recalled the esteem in which the lord was held.” She winked at him. “It’s like having a secret password for the Moundills, which are the winterlands that pledge fealty to Brighthearth Keep. The lord did employ an Obsequiant, however.”

“A person who reads secret thoughts sounds dead helpful,” he said thoughtfully, which confirmed Tildy’s suspicion that he hadn’t been listening. She rolled her eyes.

* * * * * 

Their silent guide kept his horse at a brisk trot, but Tildy noticed the witch moving slower than her usual pace. She suspected her adoptive mother was teaching the man a lesson in manners. After several dark looks and near as many deep sighs, he dismounted and walked ahead of them, leading his horse at a reasonable pace. Tildy saw the witch smile as soon as his back was turned, and they resumed their typical walking speed.

Hoping to engage their dour guide, Tildy skipped up to him and asked, “How tall is the Last Shard?”

“Tall,” he replied, not interested in the least. Marklin laughed.

At one point a cloud crossed the sun, throwing the tower into sharp relief. For a moment, the space between heartbeats, it reminded Tildy of the Sarsenith, with its etched face, sunken eyes, and its tall, unbreakable stone. The cloud moved on, and the illusion ended. Yet the breath caught in her throat, nonetheless. An impatient sound from their escort spurred her back into motion.

They walked the rest of the way in silence, the Shard growing taller and more intimidating, soaring above them like some god’s column holding up the sky.

They reached the outer curtain wall, a massive perimeter of stone that stretched out of sight in both directions and stood taller than any building in Wayfahren. As they walked through its enormous passageway, she became certain the cottage in Dappledown could be placed within it. Marklin pulled her sleeve and pointed upwards. Following his gesture, she saw barred holes in the ceiling and shuddered to think what could rain down upon an unwanted guest.

This was the first castle Tildy had visited, though she had pictured them countless times as she read stories of Evereign or Ganyma the Grand Knight or Sir Barrowfell the Just or the numerous other tales that filled her favorite books. She had always heard the distinct clip clop of horses as mounted knights left on some urgent errand, the common folk waving banners and watching them go. Her ears perked up, but heard no horse save the one led by their escort.

* * * * *

They finally emerged into a courtyard, which Tildy knew was called a bailey and where she received her first look at the Obsequiant. A slight creature, he stood as tall as she, though an elongated head and pinched face covered with short hairs indicated he was most assuredly not Human. He stood hunched, small hirsute hands held together against his chest. Keen black eyes focused on his guests, seemingly unconcerned about the bustle of activity around him, though he was dwarfed by people and horse alike. His luxurious garb of grey cloth and black fur made it difficult to see where the garment ended and his person began. A linen stole hung from his neck, its ends nearly brushing the ground and stitched with symbols she did not recognize. She tried not to stare but couldn’t help wondering whether he was a man who looked like a half-shorn chipmouse or a chipmouse who looked like a fuzzy man.

“Neither,” he said casually, startling her. He cheerfully extended his arms. “Welcome to Southershard, castle of House Stoneward, bastion of the Hearkenfell Mountains, and faithful Shield of Empyrelia, umalau-umalau,” he said with a bow. “I am Fillofillo, most humble servant and castellan of Southershard. I welcome you on the Midsummer, an auspicious day to receive new friends.”

“Thank you for your greetings, umadowd-umadowd,” the witch said as she half-bowed. Tildy and Marklin followed suit. “I am Ellethen Longbranch of Wayfahren, and this is my daughter Tildeneth and our companion Billious.”

“As you say, esgilladwyn,” he said, scrutinizing them all. When her adoptive mother frowned, waves of dread washed over Tildy, and she imagined the strange person reading her mind. But his shrewd look became a smile as he said, “But I appreciate why you say as such!”

He walked to Tildy and took her hand. “Fear not, sweetest lady, if you do not wish me to know, I shall not know.” Tildy blushed and averted her eyes, wondering what he meant while trying not to give anything away by thinking about it while also not thinking about anything else that might tell him something she did not wish him to learn which made her wonder if he was a thoughtseer, the idea of which she was unsure about. Her thoughts ran together with the speed of a stallion, and she suddenly felt quite confused. She came back to herself to see him greeting Marklin with both hands. “There is a humor about you, I can tell.”

To the witch, the castellan said, “My dearest new friend, my lord baron is away hunting, so I will apologize most sincerely on his behalf and beg your forgiveness. His lady-wife Baroness Stoneward bids me to give you a most-gracious welcome in his stead, unamer-unamer,” he finished, gesturing them to the tower.

* * * * *

“It truly is a natural formation,” the witch said. “Some granite core that that had sloughed off its weaker shell to stand forever in defiance against the weathering erosion of time and the elements.”

“It’s so…so big,” Marklin said as they approached, clearly at a loss for words.

“Indeed, indeed,” replied the castellan. “It is seventy-five paces a side and would take you quite some time to walk around the base, though I am certain young master would have no difficulty there.”

“Thank you,” Marklin said. He quickly added, “Unamer-unamer,” unsure what to say.

The Obsequiant tutted. “Young master’s tongue twists quite tremendously, having only met the unworthy castellan, unalat-unalat,” he said, giving Marklin’s shoulder a pat. “I thank you most humbly, surmising you meant ‘unamay-unamay’.” He walked ahead with the witch as Marklin and Tildy shared incredulous looks.

The castellan led them up a set of broad white steps and paused at the mighty ebon doors that blocked their way. Tildy saw intricate silver inlays in the door: dancing animals entwined with ivy tendrils. “The baron-master is quite proud of these doors, and so I present them to you. No one enters Southershard, be he noble king or pauper peasant, without being given the opportunity to marvel at them,” he said proudly. “Made with rarest ravenswood, grown far to the east in the secret forests of Hasfolen, as I’m sure you can tell, and carved by the Elvish artisan Esmoleth.” He admired the doors for a few moments, indicating they should do the same. Tildy guessed he had done this dozens of times, yet he appeared genuinely intrigued.

“Yes, intrigued is the word, bright-smile,” the castellan said as he continued. “How he laid the silver for the ivy, I’m sure one such as me cannot guess! But he certainly understood the history of the Southershard.” He leaned toward Tildy and said, “If you look at the walls of the tower, you shall see the same argentia clinging to the very sides! Silver vine and silver leaf!” He gave her a wink. “Stout creepers they are, reaching nearly the top, umillard-umillard,” he said pointing a small finger upward. Tildy looked up, her eyes following the tarnished vines as far as she could see.

“Appears to be a variation of skyvy,” the witch mused.

“Of old – ages ago – this same silver ivy was said to protect itself in times of danger, entwining and constricting itself like a snake around hateful weeds. Indeed, above the door it says: ‘By the ivy’s grace do I fall or stand.’” He shook his head in disbelief. “But the plant of today simply fills in the cracks like an artisan might use gold in resin to repair damaged pottery. The two stories have been combined into a new folklore here, I must say. People believe the ivy keeps this most-noble, yet most-ancient tower from collapsing, but if that were true, I certainly wouldn’t sleep here in the winter when the vines grow brittle!” He punctuated his joke with a high-pitched laugh that sounded fake to Tildy.

Dramatically wiping his eyes with a furry hand, he looked curiously at his guests who were not laughing along. “No, it does not get old,” he said to Marklin, who gave Tildy another look.

“But I mistake myself!” he said, clapping his hands together. “A most terrible journey you have had, full of much toil and fear, I suspect. Yes, very much. I must take you to my mistress and she will place judgment upon you.” He pushed on the doors, which swung noiseless inwards.

* * * * *

His last words alarmed Tildy, but the witch only smiled at her and then followed the Obsequiant into the Last Shard. With one last exchanged look, Tildy and Marklin joined them.

Tildy had never been in a room so large, and by the faces of her companions, neither had they. The grand hall must have occupied half of the massive first floor. To their right, narrow windows of varying heights stood above a wide staircase that hugged the wall and disappeared into a passageway far above them. A shallow alcove lay on the floor beneath, within which hung two sets of black curtains.

As she turned left, she saw a similar stair circling upwards behind them with its own windows. Colorful tapestries hung from every wall and between the windows like the garments of Giants.

Before their feet stretched a mosaic of large tiles. Each square was different, drawing her eye with a shine, sparkle, or swirl of color. Tildy wondered if every rock in Empyrelia were represented here. Numerous low plinths filled the space with treasures and artifacts from a hundred cultures or more. From her reading, she thought she recognized some, such as the large onyx scorpion statue rearing up on its back legs. It would have been carved in the deserts of the Shimmer Pale. The growing crystals were obviously a token of the Dwarven caverns of Breckadain. The witch’s attention was enthralled by an intricate living tree sculpture from the dead race of Elves known as the Imisthen, and she walked over to admire it. Tildy’s tongue stumbled over all the unfamiliar words of their languages and hoped she wouldn’t be tested by her mother.

Tall candle staves, hanging mirror-strands, and flaming oil chalices stood around the room, illuminating those displays the windows did not. Tildy thought she could spend a month studying the treasures of beauty and wealth in the room.

She looked around for Marklin, imagining which prize would catch his eye. She spied him in a far corner of the room, coveting an ebon sword that stood upright, balanced upon its point without support.

The castellan watched them, a proud host appreciating the admiration of his guests. He called to them and gestured around at the chamber. “Yes, yes! All wonderful words are suitable here. Just think,” he said with a bright tone that promised a delightful sweet, “this is but one diamond in the magnificence of Southershard treasure.”

He beckoned and they followed him to the back wall, where awaited another set of doors. Above them, a vast flag bore the grey fist of the baron’s standard. The wall itself didn’t extend to the distant ceiling; rather it ended in a gallery that overlooked the chamber. A stone balustrade ran its length, but Tildy couldn’t see beyond it. Not without her wings.

“You may leave your packs. My good-lady baroness awaits you within, unalay-unalay,” he said as stepped to the doorway. On either side hung more tapestries bearing a variety of sigils. He knocked twice with precision and pushed them open.

* * * * *

Within this smaller, yet no less impressive chamber, a woman in unusual garb sat in one of two elaborate stone chairs upon a dais. She looked up from her needlework as they entered, her pale face cast into shadow by an oversized cowl of stiff purple fabric. The material bunched about her chin before spilling over her breast in a frill. Similar material covered her shoulders, forming puffy gigot sleeves that faded to ivory as they reached her wrists. The dress itself was the color of young grass, descending into pleats that revealed the matching ivory of her sleeves. Tildy thought it took a special kind of woman to wear such an outfit, because it placed her face at the center of an enormous flower. However, her imperious look dared anyone to doubt its nobility.

Tildy stared across the chamber at the woman, seeing a complete stranger, yet feeling as though she were meeting someone she had forgotten.

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