Nine days after Fenric first arrived in Silveck with Lord Anshelm, he finally had the chance to sneak away without arousing suspicion. There was nothing odd to a servant spending any available free time he may have away from his hall, but Fenric had been entirely without true free time since arriving. Lord Anshelm had been – anxiously, as if doing this work to keep his mind off other things – engaging Fenric to write down lengthy reports on the economy of the realm. Those reports were in most cases far beyond Fenric’s capabilities to understand and in all cases entirely too tedious to pay attention to. When Lord Anshelm left his hall, he would – in cases where he would be gone for only a short while – tell Fenric to do whatever he wished, but stay put so they may resume their work upon Lord Anshelm’s return or – in cases where he would be gone for a long while — tell Fenric to assist his sister or Wulfger. The only time he could have left would have been after supper and Fenric feared he would be gone long enough that it would prompt questions. Nobles posted guards by their halls at night, so he could scarcely hope to sneak in unnoticed, save perhaps by use of sorcery he did not currently possess the materials to perform. 

This was what Fenric, once finally standing in the warm bakery basement that had long served as a meeting place for the Sorcerers Society of Silveck, attempted to explain to his old master, Guthrun the Clever. Other society members were present and heard him speak, but Master Guthrun led the society in Silveck and so it was her, first and foremost, whom the explanation was for. They were a small group today. Old Man Ola and Inga Baker were, as always, present, as were a couple of young apprentices, but that was it. This was an afternoon for teaching, not for strategising. 

Or it had been, until Fenric arrived.  

"The fact remains that we expected you a week ago, Book-Finch. Your delay caused worry. With the whispers emerging from Cletzhem, I half-expected you'd gotten yourself caught."

Fenric grinned slightly, the remnants of boyhood cheekiness coming over him in the company of his old teacher.

"You do remember it was you who gave me the name “Book-Finch”, do you not, Master? Such a small bird does not get caught, nor does it arouse suspicion.”

Guthrun gave Fenric the same unimpressed look she’d given him countless times when he was younger. Next to Guthrun, Old Man Ola laughed. 

“The boy is here, Guthrun! Is that not enough?”

Guthrun rolled her eyes, but relented.

“Fate made it so, I suppose,” she said. “Baker, will you be teacher today?”

Inga Baker agreed with a nod and herded the youths to the other end of the basement.

“Let me hear it, then: what new from Marcburg?”

“They have chosen a new master,” Fenric said. “Master Solwei sends her regards.”

Guthrun narrowed her eyes. New things had not always disturbed her, but Fenric supposed she was getting older. When Fenric had first met her, her hair had just begun to grey, while now, in the flickering light of the campfire, it seemed to be uniform in colour. 

“Master Byulf?”

“Straw death,” Fenric said.

Guthrun made a pained face. Fenric didn’t know for sure, but he’d always suspected that among her fellow masters, it had been Master Byulf whom Guthrun respected the most. Old Man Ola patted Guthrun on the shoulder.

“His Fate was to unite people and he has. He can walk into the next world with honour.”

“I know,” Guthrun said. Quiet, serious. Frowning. Not the laughing teacher from Fenric’s youth. “This complicates things, though.”

“I know Solwei well, Guthrun,” Fenric said. “She is committed, strong-willed. A competent leader. I believe she will play the part she needs to play.”

“She is untested,” Guthrun replied sharply. 

Too sharply for her own ear, it seemed, for she followed her words with a deep sigh and when she spoke again, her tone was milder. 

“I am glad you think highly of her. I trust your judgement – well, I trust your judgement when it comes to this, at least. What else did she say?”

“The Marcburg Society has made contact with some of the rebels in the mountains. When I left, no solid deal had been reached yet, but Master Solwei intends to speak with their leader in person at nearest convenience.”

“Risky,” Guthrun said, a note of respect in her voice. “Worth it, if something comes of it. Are these rebels of the peasant bandit variety, or do they follow some noble’s claim?”

“Peasant bandits, for the most part,” Fenric said. “Some are escaped slaves from the mines, I understand. Others are outlaws too angry to settle on the other side of the border.”

“So murderers and slaves,” Old Man Ola said. “Fitting allies for sorcerers!”

“We’d all be declared nithing with equal ease,” Guthrun agreed. “I wonder, though, if Solwei’s bandits will see that.”

“You worry they’ll condemn us regardless,” Fenric said.

Guthrun nodded quietly, deep in thought. She’d been the master of the Silveck Sorcerers Society for about a decade now. Fenric wondered if the responsibility ever got easier to bear. 

“I have a question for you as well, if you please,” Fenric said.

Guthrun looked up at him.

“That business up at Cletzhem – I assume you have nothing to do with it?”

“We don’t. I initially thought it was another empty scare, another ordinary illness ascribed to sorcery, but with you asking like that…”

“Lord Anshelm appears to think it real,” Fenric said. “He’s sent for Gytha Jordis.”

Guthrun swore profusely. 

“I knew we needed someone at the castle, I knew it and yet…”

“I met her once, you know,” Old Man Ola said. “She declared that I was a harmless old man and let me go on my way.”

“You were already old then?” Fenric couldn’t help but ask.

Ola laughed heartily. 

“I may have played it up a bit. “

“Do you know anything else, Fenric?” Guthrun interrupted. “Whether they’re planning a sweep of the city? What type of sorcery they found the signs of?”

Fenric shook his head.

“I’m sorry, I really don’t know much… Although, when I posted that letter, I went into Cletzhem Stronghold and there were no signs of panic or investigation and in the letter, Lord Anshelm wrote something about the king ‘finding rot in his home’... I suppose that would mean that whatever it is, it happened at the castle, yes? There was something about ‘poison’ in the letter too, but he could have meant it figuratively.”

Guthrun tapped a finger against her lips in thought. 

“Noble intrigues, perhaps? A sorcerer hired to take out a rival?”

Though Fenric had not known what to think before, something had him shaking his head now. It felt as if the mere presence of Guthrun was making him smarter. Perhaps some part of him still wanted to impress his old teacher. 

“I doubt it. With the way Lord Anshelm reacted, I think it was targeted at the king. And there’s no obvious heir if King Roderic dies, no obvious beneficiary…”

“With nobles, there’s always an angle,” Old Man Ola said. “Maybe another House wants a bastard in their pocket, maybe there’s a cousin who’s technically eligible, maybe someone just doesn’t like Roderic… There are a thousand reasons to kill a king. Don’t make the mistake of thinking you understand their world just because you’ve been given a glimpse of it, my boy.”

“I shall keep that in mind, Olauver,” Fenric said as he looked Old Man Ola over. 

Ola’s wrinkles hung almost as heavily on him as his shabby clothes and his half blind eyes were obscured by his long grey hair. No-one knew much about his past, apart from maybe Master Guthrun. As far as anyone else remembered, though, he’d always been the old man of the Silveck Sorcerers Society. Fenric’s questioning of his elderly status in his encounter with Gytha Jordis hadn’t been entirely in jest, Ola really was rumoured to be impossibly old. Sorcerers were as prone to gossiping as any other population and there were many rumours about what spell or magical item was supposedly keeping Ola alive. Likely all fanciful nonsense, in Fenric’s estimation… and yet he had asked, not entirely in jest. 

When Ola spoke as he just had, though, Fenric wondered if perhaps these rumours obscured a more pertinent line of inquiry: who had Old Man Ola been, before he was old? Had he been involved with nobles once? Had he perhaps even been one himself? Or were his words simply those of one who had lived long enough to see history repeat itself one too many times?

A frustrated sigh from Guthrun brought Fenric’s attention back to the situation at hand. 

“I knew we needed someone at the castle…” Guthrun repeated. “They tend to hire the family members of people who already work there, though, so I’m not sure how to…”

As she drifted off, Guthrun shook her head. As she did so, her age suddenly seemed less regal, less authority and more… fragile. Fenric had never thought he’d use such a word about Master Guthrun. She had always been strong-willed, so sure of the direction of their struggle, a surety she had imbued Fenric with. 

She was also an old woman who had seen countless friends executed for sorcery. The last purge was only 3 years ago. 

Old Man Ola put a hand on Guthrun’s shoulder.

“An issue for another time, perhaps,” he said mildly. 

Guthrun managed something akin to a smile and nodded to her old teacher before turning her attention back to Fenric. 

“For now, Fenric, I want you to keep an eye on the situation and inform me only if you learn something critical. And don’t take any risks – the potential of your position is too valuable to risk on this, understood?”

Fenric swallowed something. His gaze drifted to the other end of the basement where Inga Baker was quietly explaining the theory behind carving out spells in wood to three apprentices, none of whom could scarcely be older than 16. 

He forced his gaze back to Guthrun. 

“And if things turn bad? Am I allowed to take risks then?”

Guthrun shook her head.

“Only if it threatens the larger plan. Even if they begin a sweep, I don’t want you trying to undermine it. That’d only be a good way to ensure that you’re the first one they find. Not only is your position too valuable, you also know too much to get caught.”

Fenric swallowed again. He wanted to argue. He bitterly wanted to. But how could he, when Guthrun was right? A new fate for the sorcerers was more important than any one life. Than dozens of lives, even. Fate had led them to form the societies and to form the bonds between them, Fate had allowed them to get this far… if Fenric could serve the new fate of all sorcerers better as a coward, did honour not compel him to be dishonourable?

“As you say, Master.”