Darius I — a small town, surrounded by dirt

The council was not convened, and Darius kept its chambers alone. Three men stood before him: an old man, a boy, and a stranger. The old man was Seton's Master of Crows, Gwent Masler. He was so old that the strength in his legs was gone and he was so unsteady, and his legs shook so much, that the children in the lower village called him 'Friga', meaning cold. The boy was Castor Nelson's son and a recent graduate of the college. His name escaped Darius but he had heard good things, that he was clever and an excellent rider. Far too good to succeed the work of a baker, but he would never say as such to Castor. The third man was an oddity, strange by the very fact of his strangeness, for Seton did not often receive visitors. The Great Mire stretched from the Evangelium to the end of the world, and in all of its vastness there was only Seton, and Seton was the only place. Like all strangers, he would have come from the far fiorns, beyond the mountains.

He was the first to speak.

"Your Honour, I have travelled far to come here, but my business can wait. This young man and I came across the body of a man outside your walls. I confirmed him dead myself."

The news reminded Darius of his hunger. The summons came early and he had rushed from his home on Fiornhill without breakfast. On foot too, for the stableboy Turney had taken his horse to hack. He sipped on his wine for a long moment and examined their faces; they were dark enough, especially the boy's. He looked afeared of even shadows.

"I am no judge," Darius said. "Nor king. Just Darius will do. As Seton Watch, I greet you and welcome you to our humble marshland town. But you are right, pleasantries can wait. Speak, I'll deal with this matter myself."

The Chambers of the Seven were magnificent but empty. They were built from the stone of Guyun, and there was none of the elegance of the wood cut from The King's Wood. Worst of all was his chair, which was smaller than the rest, for it carried the heaviest weight. It sat at the head of the room and was the only chair with a view of the sky. He looked up at it now, at its deep blue.

Friga stumbled forward. "It's Thom—t'man found em, below t'Park—by t'river, Derry."

Darius had spoken with Thomas only yesterday. They had discussed his recent rag of foals. Sixteen stallions and eight mares, and not a single death. A sign of things to come, Thomas had claimed.

"Aye well, we don't know for sure sir," the boy said, tugging at Friga's arm. "On account of me not knowing the man, only the shirts he had by his side and Fr— Master Masler here's musings."

Darius rose to his feet. "You must be mistaken. You were not there, Gwent?"

The old man's bony, pale white hands probed against the wall for balance. The skin was stretched so thin that his veins were visible, and looked as if they might be nicked on the dullest of surfaces. Yet they were riddled with the scars of a thousand talons. They were hands that had worked for many, many years.

"Not exactly Derry, not quite... no, but it could be no one else. The boy says he saw 'em, with a basket of cloth and hair as black as coal. By The Calabrese on The Road to Copernicus."

Darius approached the stranger first, for he had been the one to deliver the news, and despite his silence was most probing—his eyes the most seeing. "Name yourself," he said.

The man bowed at the waist. "I am called Sakurai Shun."

"And what do they say of a man's word in your land?"

"It is absolute."

Darius nodded slowly. "Then give me your word."

"A man is dead," Sakurai said. "I do not know who he is. But a man is dead. I have seen many dead men. This much is true, I give you my word."

Darius had read of these Fiornsip peoples in the Grand Tower's library when he had been anointed as Watch. Slanted eyes and fair but sun-touched skin that was free of blemishes. Straight black hair. He was unusually tall if the books were to be believed, but every place had its tall people. His clothes however were familiar: brown, layered, and built from the skin outwards from dried fur and tight-wrapped linen. His gaiters were lined with vulcanized latex sap and reached up to his knees, and were covered in dirt that had not yet dried. Even so he spoke with dignity and surety, and Darius trusted him for it.

The baker's boy spoke. "I can take you there sir," he said. "Not far off The Road, by the river."

"Wait for me outside then," Darius said, and when they were gone he closed the doors and turned to Friga. Seton's Master of Crows had been a wise and healthy man some years ago when Darius had first become the Seton Watch. It pained him to see how far he had fallen and how addled his mind had become.

Darius said gently. "I would not ask my son to die, Gwent, and certainly not for the whispers of a pale king. Send a crow if you must, but you know well that Dorian is with the rangers. We'll discuss this when I return."

He excused himself and left Friga in the dark of the Chambers.

They were to walk on foot for an hour said the boy, and follow The Road until they neared the mire on the leftward branch to Copernicus. Darius knew the place well. Thomas had taken him once one aeggmass when the festivals were over, to wash the clothes of a hundred village children. 'Worried', he had said, about the children's mothers. But Darius always believed he merely enjoyed laundry, for he was always doing his own. Since then they often met there, but now... no, it served nothing to ponder.

The Road was the end and the beginning of all journeys 'fiorns', away from Seton. It began at the Chamber of Seven on the edge of the lower village, then cut daedd through Red Park, an uninterrupted stretch of brush and green and yellow grasses on the outskirts of Seton a mile wide and twice as long. It was easy to get lost, but there were no dangers in the park but starvation and the cold. He had not asked, but Thomas was familiar with the area and had made the journey alone most every week. Although the Park was only three feet above the mire at its lowest point it had never once flooded no matter the rain or strength of Blue—not even that one year when Darius was fifteen when the Blue lingered for fifteen months and transformed the mire into an endless sea.

That was much of Seton. Balanced on the precipice of danger, tilted just beyond its reach. They hardly lived comfortable lives, but they were long and steady, especially for a man like Thomas. Death was a time of celebration, of old life returned to the mire, but there were no celebrations for a life taken early. He did not like the shadow that it left, nor what its presence meant. But the word, once thought, would not leave Darius, and plagued him more with every step.

The stranger kept to himself several paces behind. The boy led the way. He was taller than Darius but not as large; he had forty-seven summers of hard work behind him.

Darius called out to him. "How is your father?"

The boy pulled his feet and waited for Darius to drew up beside him. Scared. Or nervous? He said, "Good sir, he''s be right pleased you asked, good business. Christos by the way, 'case you didn't remember. Christos Nelson, I'm friends with your son, Dorian."

"I wondered how he might have passed his exams. Though I'm more interested in your new friend."

"Oh we don't know each other sir, took me horse out onto The Road earlier. Met him on a chance."

"And how far out did you make it?"

Christos' eyes widened. A dangerously sharp boy, Darius thought. "You mean to think Mr Shun did it? Can't a been, he was on foot sir and I was about a day's walk from the town. Only a couple hours with Max though, mighty fine horse that one. From your own rag, remember? Red and black with red spots."

Darius was impressed. He hadn't said a word about his suspicions, but the boy's account would prove a sufficient for now.

"Max is a fine name," he said.

Christos nodded eagerly. "Aye sir, Maximillius sir. From my favourite book."

"You like books?"

"I do sir, especially books about the other places. And... well, are they real sir? It's just, well, there's rumours in the college that you came from beyond the Vangeline, Elathan says he keeps meaning to ask, but I can't tell if he's being all serious like."

"I fear he's had you got. I was born on the farm right here in Seton, but aye it's real." He gestured back to Sakurai. "Must've come through the Troll's Eye, ask him."

Christos drew into himself. He muttered. "If he don't be hanged sir."

"You say you met him on The Road? You can vouch for the man's innocence?"

"I do sir, if it pleases you. Rather like him, don't look like no murderer to me."

To a child, perhaps. His face was mellow enough, round enough. But Seton was a small town surrounded by endless mire and cut off from the world by the vast crown of the Evangelium Mountains, so wild and feared that it was said that they had never been peaked by men and that they never be peaked until the end of time. The few routes through the mountains were long and treacherous, plagued by Roc and nameless beasts, unbidden storm fronts and winds so fierce they had long since stripped the rocks bare and the footholds smooth. The Evangelium broke for Guyun, the forest of stone, but that was a hellish place impossible to traverse.

If there was any one thing certain about strangers to The Great Mire it was that only those who were extremely capable made it as far as Seton, only those with thick bones whose eyes knew death. Any man who crossed the Evangelium alone was certainly capable of murder. It was a necessity.

The three continued in silence until the brush and brambles of Red Park dwindled and the land on either side of The Road took on the familiar spongey wetness of the mire. The Road split here: rightward, it continued daedd through Kenelm farm and then away from Seton to the King's Wood, the Troll's Eye Pass, and beyond. Left, it turned hamth instead, leftwards around Seton, stopping after only a two-mile at the stone island of Copernicus. They followed this road for several minutes until Christos turned and stepped off into the mire and along the banks of the River Calabrese. The water reached Darius' ankles but could not penetrate his boots.

Thomas Allwright was sitting on the riverside, atop a hill. His washing was beside him, folded neatly in a wicker basket. His eyes were blue and wide—and seeing, Darius might have thought, if it weren't for the gash that tore across his belly and the novel crimson hue to his clothes. Red and not white. But Thomas never wore anything except white. He was proud, but homely, impressed upon as a child by his mother's cleaning and devoted in adulthood to the art. Kept the God of Stains away he said. Afeared it. But no powder or concoction could draw blood from linen. He would hate to see himself now.

"Bears," said Sakurai Shun. It was the first time they had spoken on their journey. "It must have been a bear."

Darius agreed. The wound had almost cut Thomas in half. There were no weapons, nor any man, that could inflict such a large wound. It was the most reasonable assumption but Darius was not convinced. It was too large, too clean. And bears were not often found so close to the walls in the summer.

He was angry now, but it showed only in his eyes. "Thomas was no fool. I've never known a man to value laundry over his life." He turned to Christos now, who shied away in fright. "And what have you seen of bears?"

"None sir," said Christos. "Some weeks ago maybe sir, but not near Seton. Just The Road sir, only safe way out after all. It was scared mostly, and with the problems of the mire that old Friga says it don't make much sense that a bear would walk so far sir. Know better than the walk to their deaths, see."

Sakurai Shun interrupted. "Fuyu—what you call 'Blue'. It has not come this year, has it?"

Darius' anger dispersed and he was all of a sudden tired. It was this very same issue that had the Council interrogating him each week. It was because of this that damnable Friga would not leave him be, and the rangers continued their excursions despite the late summer months, where otherwise they would remain at Copernicus, and his son would be safe at home. Perhaps the world had simply gone mad, and all of the people in it.

He stooped down and sifted through what tatters remained of Thomas' clothes. There was a spare sponge and a red-stained rag. Beneath the tunic, his skin was clean cut and the blood was still red. It glistened in the afternoon light. If he were murdered, it would have had to have been from a man of incredible strength, and from only one swing for there was only one cut.

"He was sitting," noted Sakurai, who dropped to his knees beside Darius. He pointed to Thomas' legs. They were bent underneath him. "Or he fell. Either way, he wasn't running, he must have known who attacked him. Or he had reason not to be scared. You have soldiers here?"

"Lord Carmine's men, yes. They're good men, loyal men. They're not killers."

"For a soldier, ironic, don't you think?" Sakurai said.

That brought a grimace to Darius' eyes. "Fine. Lord Carmine won't object. Thomas was well acquainted with his men."

Sakurai then sat on his haunches and bowed so that his chest lay flat against the dirt. He pressed his forehead into the ground, and folded his hands in front of him. A foreign gesture, but one whose weight and meaning was not lost on Darius.

Sakurai asked in the voice of a soldier. "I beg of you to allow me to find whoever committed this great atrocity. I am disgusted that my journey would be tainted by the presence of evil upon my arrival. I would not rest well until they are brought to justice. Please."

For all of his words he never once raised his head.

"No," Darius said, almost immediately. "I've still half a mind it might be you, but if you wish you may accompany our first ranger, as a witness."

"You are too kind," Sakurai declared. He raised his head. "Thank you."

Darius turned back to Thomas and the mire and gazed at his body one last time, burning the sight into his mind. The blood. The eyes. His voice, though that he could never hear again.

"Boy, fetch the coroner, and be quick. Send him to the farm when he is done, and have Gwent amend his letters. Tell him that first ranger Deily Aul and her party is to return immediately"

"Yessir," Christos said and set off at a jogging pace.

Sakurai and Darius returned together, though they did not share another word until they reached the village gates.

"Wig and Pen," Darius said. He offered the man a hand. "You'll find a room there, it's straight on. We'll talk soon."

"Of course," replied Sakurai. He bowed and shook Darius' hand, then he was gone.

The day waned, bringing with it different, redder hues. It was darker and colder, and the stalls that lined the streets were returned to their covers, and most of the people to their homes. The walk was not long; Thomas and his wife lived in a complex below Norhill not far from Kenelm Farm. It was a modest house: two floors and an adjacent barn which was more often used for parties than for hay or horses.

He approached the front door and knocked. A pretty woman answered him; she was wearing an apron which was stained white and her mouth was stretched into a coy smile. Thomas' wife, Melinoe. Was she baking? The house smelled nice.

"I'm afraid your mischief will have to wait," she teased. "He's not back yet, but he figured you'd be round by now, said to get a bottle ready."

Darius struggled for only a few moments before he told himself that to freeze would be a terrible injustice. "I'm here about Thomas, can we speak inside?"

Her smile fell into a puzzled frown. "Welcome as always Derry, come in."

She pushed the door open and showed him into the living room.

The hour passed with words, some of which were spoken by Darius, and others of which were spoken by Melinoe. They were pointless and insignificant. There was only one truth after all, one that could be summarised in three and understood in one.

"Thomas is dead," Darius told her. She didn't cry. She thanked him and offered him the berry vanglewine that Thomas had saved. Uncorked for the occasion of Dorian's first expedition into the mire. Thomas' favourite drink despite how it stained.

"Your little mudwalker," Melinoe said. "In Thom's stead, congratulations. Just like you then, no?"

"Just like me," Darius agreed. "He'll make a good ranger."

"He will." She looked behind her, into the kitchen, and then back at Darius. "Sorry, I have a pie in the oven. It's almost ready. I would ask you stay but..."

Darius stood. There were many more words he wanted to say but they for him, and they would not help.

"Thank you for the wine. If you need anything at all call for me at the farm, I mean this. Do not suffer alone."

"Of course. Thank you Derry. Get home safely now will you?"

Melinoe followed him to the door and closed it behind him.

The final walk home was long and colder with each step. He could see it all the way, Kenelm Farm: four elegant constructions of maplewood and granite atop fiornhill, the largest of which marked the daedfiorn skyline as a black spire in the morning as the sun rose before it; thick-shadowed, dramatic and looming in the eve. To the lower village, Kenelm Farm was a greater mark than the Carmine Estate. The Road ran through it, weaving past the houses and barrack and out into the mire.

The farm was empty and the sun was setting behind it, and it was quiet but for the whining of horses and a whistling wind. Lucy greeted him at the door.

"Welcome home Mr Kenelm," she said and bowed. She opened the door for him.

"Fetch me two glasses would you? Bring them to the living room."

The rooms were small, and the corridors long. Each room was furnished sparingly with dark oak and maple, transported long ago from the King's Wood. A fire crackled in the corner and its heat passed over him in waves.

Lucy entered with two crystal glasses on a tray. "Will Master Thomas be joining you today Sir?" She placed them both on a table in front of him.

"Yes," Darius said. "For a time."

Lucy bowed and left the room. She was a girl of good sense. He'd make sure the butler give her a tuppence as a reward.

She brought him his best glasses. Wine clung to them as if they were made of rock. He poured both glasses generously and drank the first. He held the second and rocked it back and forth. The wine danced in his palm and threw the firelight in strange shapes across the wall. He let his wrist grow limp and the glass skewed, and its contents spilt across the smooth stone floor. The wine pooled then escaped through a crack in the mortar. When the glass was empty and all of the wine gone Darius returned it to the tray and poured himself another.

Then there were no sounds and it was still cold despite the fire. Always cold. That would be the way of things now, Darius realised. There was nothing to be done but wait and be cold. He closed his eyes and imagined if this were how Thomas had felt in his final moments. So cold no fire could warm him. The Blue cold in its months-long reign.

But no, his eyes had been open. They were staring out onto the mire. He had a novel thought then, that death came from the mire. It would fit well with the old words.

"Rest below," Darius said. "To the damned tree, for what it's worth." He raised the glass and lapsed into a deep and coveting brood.