“Not all those who wander are lost.”-JRR. Tolkien.

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In the northeast-most corner of Cerius, there live the people that have long been considered less important in history. The humans of the island country of La’isni are a fairly unobtrusive people. Merchants and farmers by trade and lovers of all things involving the arts. It is in these islands, small much like its people, that some of the most epic stories have come alive, though they were written by the far older races of faeries and elves.

The island-dwelling humans are not overly beautiful, but are rather homely with mouths always ready to curve into a warm smile. They do not grow to be a great height, the islanders, perhaps five foot four at highest. They dress quite plainly, with colorful scarves, often with bangles and small disks sewn cleverly into their clothing to catch the light. Shoes are worn only at parties, which were thrown at least once a month in which half of the town would be invited and the other half would find themselves there anyways, for the islanders’ feet long since become accustomed to walking along hot roads and sand. They’re a welcoming people, always willing to share what they have, sometimes what little they have of it, and have found ways to make profit of anything.

Their cities are not built with white marble, as are the human cities of legend, but rather of clay and brick, for they had to be powerful enough to withstand the regular storms that buffeted the islands. Those that live along the coast are those that work by their trade, the shoe-makers and jewelers. The farmers do their work higher in the hills, though few people venture into the forests high in the mountains where the guardian spirits of the islands dwell. Those very same spirits have been known to wander through human cities and villages, but the islanders are no longer surprised. They welcome the spirits the same as they would other people.

If you travel to the main island of La’isni, to a small coastal city by the name of Syngri’io down one of their few cobblestone streets, the one named Remwood Way and go all the up, for the area is very hilly there, to where it intersects with Lilylake Road and on that corner you will find a place where this story begins, a place known as the Nightbloom Inn.

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A rush of hot August wind blew across streets, sweeping dust and dirt into the air. All of the day businesses were closing shop as the sunlight died and people retreated into their cool homes.

Iris Tsarth hefted the last of the boxes for the morning delivery. She straightened her back to ease cramped muscles and glanced around the emptying streets before going back inside their small inn. In truth, the inn wasn’t very old, but the worn woodwork and well-used tables had a sense of age in them. The Nightbloom Inn wasn’t fancy, certainly not like the inns Iris remembered in the big cities, but it was functional and comfortable.

Stained glass windows formed exotic patterns that cast vibrant color across the floor and the bar seemed to be an extension of the wall, no single dividing line to differentiate between them. It felt odd to see the inn so empty at twilight, because it would have been open for business a few hours ago. But Wenning had told her to close early for tonight for some odd reason.

She was about to lock the front door when Wenning trumped down the stairs. “Don’t lock it, Iris. No point to it, in any case.”

“Sir-”

“Trust me for once, will you, Iris?” Wenning flashed a quick charming smile at the twenty year old, tugging once at her red curls and serving himself a mug of ale.

Iris frowned at him. Wenning didn’t often drink ale, only when he was in one of his rare good moods. And he was practically glowing tonight, his dusky red-gold hair and gray eyes shining. “You’re in a good mood. What happened?”

“Nothing yet, girl.” Yet. Iris knew Wenning Reynolds, despite not actually having known him for more than a few years. He had very few good moods, but when he did, it was on the most seemingly ordinary days. And he had never before closed early. Wenning leaned on the bar, taking a swig of his ale.

The door opened and both of their eyes flicked towards the newcomer. He was an elderly man, leaning on a cane, but even hunched over like he was, he was still Iris’ height. Standing straight, he must have been extremely tall and there was the shadow of old muscles on his arms. He tugged down the hood of his plain brown robe, and intelligent stormy eyes shone from the wrinkled face.

“You open?” The old man asked.

Iris glanced back at Wenning, who had gone back to his ale. “Not really, but it would be bad manners to make you leave when you’ve obviously traveled far. Take a seat, Old One, enjoy this peaceful night.”

Iris made to help him to a chair but he made a playful swipe at her with his cane. “Keep to your work, girl. I’m not so old that I need help finding a chair.”

Apparently he didn’t, because he took a seat right by the fire pit, not even by a table, and leaned back in it contentedly. “A mug of ale, if you would, Lady Tsarth.”

Iris went to pour the ale, trying to catch Wenning’s eyes, but he ignored her, his gaze intent on the view from the one window that wasn’t stained glass directly in his line of sight. It wasn’t until she’d brought the old man his drink and began wiping down the bar that she stopped for a moment, wondering how he knew her name.

* * * *

It wasn’t until hours later, when the fire in the firepit had dwindled to a smolder, casting odd shadows across the floor that was colored with paler versions of their stained glass windows because of the moonlight, that a knock came at the door. The old man started awake at the noise, but didn’t make any other movements of surprise. Iris, who had gone upstairs after having done all of her expected duties, was halfway down the stairs when she heard Wenning’s unmistakable voice, a strange mix of soft and echoing, “It’s open.”

Descending the last few steps, Iris watched two newcomers enter. One of them was thin, terribly so by the way his dark clothes hung off him, but his broad shoulders hinted that there had been strong muscles there once upon a time. Hair the color of molten bronze was tied back in a tail and aquamarine eyes looked around the room curiously. His high cheekbones protruded from the thin face, but it was clear he’d once been beautiful rather than handsome, but there was no mistaking his gender. The only visible skin was on his face. His hands had leather gloves and the long sleeves of his shirt fell to his knuckles.

The shorter of the two men was just as slender as the other, but his features were perfectly plain in every respect. Brown hair that nearly hid his brown eyes, average height; he was someone who would be easily overlooked in a crowd. He was dressed entirely in black cloth, his traveling cloak faded nearly gray.

“Actually knocking...looks like you guys picked up some semblance of manners over the years.” Wenning commented.

The first man managed a grin. “We missed you too, Wenning.”

Wenning shook his head and strode forward to clasp arms with the man before pulling him into a rough hug. Wenning stepped back to look at him. “You got yourself into a spot of trouble, didn’t you, boy?”

“You expected any different?” The other remarked and laughed when the man gave him look. “It’s true and you know it, Milar.”

“Ever the smartass, aren’t you?” Wenning said before hugging him as well.

“But of course.”
Wenning stepped back and looked him up and down. “You changed so much, I almost didn’t recognize you, Lien.”

Lien smiled and instantly, his plainness melted away. He still wasn’t stunningly handsome, but he could no longer be overlooked. “Told you I’d get taller.”

“I owe you money.” Wenning grumbled at Milar and the blue-eyed man laughed.

“Money long since overdue.” Milar replied.

“Are you insinuating something, Mr. Santagnier?”

“What would you do if I was, Mr. Reynolds?”

Iris couldn’t help but gape at the scene. Wenning Reynolds was one of the oddest kinds of men. He interacted with his patrons and went out to the market often enough to be known around that part of town, but he was always the quiet one, the one that didn’t really get close to anyone. He was a heavyset man, with broad shoulders and thick arms, but Iris doubted even one ounce of his weight was fat. But you would never hear Wenning crossing the room or hear him at all if he didn’t want you to. He was simply that stealthy. And not once in the almost three years since she’d known the man had she ever seen him hug anyone.

Wenning paused and looked across the room. “Iris, it’s not polite to eavesdrop.”

Iris grimaced. Wenning also had sharper than usual hearing, something he loved to taunt her with. “It’s not eavesdropping if you’re in a public room.” She told him.

“You’re misunderstanding the concept of eavesdropping. Eavesdropping is listening in on someone’s conversation.”

Milar rolled his eyes. “Don’t listen to him. He likes being a snarky bastard.” Then he smiled apologetically and held out a hand. “Sorry, I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Milar Santagnier and this is my brother, Lien.”

“Iris Tsarth.” The younger replied as she shook the offered hand. “How exactly do you know Wenning?”

The newcomers shared a look, but before any of them could reply, the old man who had been silent throughout the entire exchange, said, “Apprentices all of them. Much like you, Lady Iris.”

“How would…”

“He’s a friend of mine, Iris. His name’s Dorian.” Wenning told her.

“And that’s why you closed up early?”

“How else would they know where to go?” Wenning walked behind the bar, serving a mug of ale for everyone. “They have no sense of direction otherwise.”

Milar accepted the ale. “You’re such a sweet-talker, Wenning. Can’t say you aren’t right though.”

Iris took a seat at the bar. “You were his apprentices?” Wenning wouldn’t take on any apprentices under fifteen and it took at least a decade to complete his apprenticeships. These two couldn’t be older than twenty-eight

“Oh yeah. But he wasn’t as soft back then.” Milar looked at her, curiosity in the bluer than blue eyes. “What’s your talent?”

“It’s not a talent really…just a clairvoyant.”

Lien gave her a once over and she could see approval in his eyes, but no active interest. “Nice find, Wenning.” He said at the same time that Milar murmured, “You always did love your clairvoyants.”

Dorian smiled kindly at her. “Don’t listen to them. They’re all far too bitter for their age. True clairvoyance is a rare gift. Treasure it and be grateful that you found a good teacher. Many geniuses die undiscovered because they don’t know what to do with what they were gifted with.”

Iris ducked her head, embarrassed. She’d never considered her powers much of anything useful, not like some of the other apprentices that Wenning had had while she’d been there. Those had been some real powers; summoning of fire, the natural Voice that was a gift of the druids. Some had had the power to heal, others with the power to see into dreams.

“Wait, so what are your talents?” Iris looked at the three now seated around the bar before looking at Wenning. Wenning had never demonstrated any inner ability. He had simply taught any wayward travelers that happened to wander by the Nightbloom Inn.

All four of them gave her the exact same mysterious smile. It was an unnerving effect on the variety of facial features. But it was Wenning who answered. “Think of it as your next challenge. Use that clairvoyance of yours to see what our inner talents are.” Even as Iris opened her mouth to object, he overrode her. “Trust me, it isn’t as difficult as it may seem that, Wenning stood and drained the last of his ale and looked at his former apprentices. “I suppose you’ll be wanting rooms then?”

“You, good sir, are a mind-reader.” Milar stood, his brother following suit and all three of them trudged upstairs.

“If you want the advice for the challenge, Lady,” Dorian began, “Learn to simply observe. The Impressionists didn’t invent the idea of light, they simply observed it. Observing is the key to any skill you wish to learn—whether it be poetry, art, music or even magic.”

Iris was left at the bar, not to clean up; she was leaving that for Wenning to spite him, but simply to ponder.

* * * *

Iris trudged down the stairs before dawn out of habit. Usually, she had a lot of dishes to do from the night before and she had to finish them before her lessons. This meant she had to wake up extra early. Rain beat against the windows in sheets, making the entire world seem a little grayer. But when she got to the bottom step, she found the brothers seated on stools in front of the bar.

Milar was naked from the waist up, his clothes lying neatly folded on the counter. She could count half his ribs and see the slight outlines of the rest. His hip and collarbones jutted out. But there were trace amounts of muscles on his skeletal frame. The things that mesmerized Iris were the storybook of tattoos and white scars. The tattoos were above each hipbone and in the center of his collarbone, black and green stars that seemed to shimmer with their own light. The scars were gruesome, some of them thick and knotted across his sides and arms while others were like chalk lines.

Lien had a palm to Milar’s heart and had his eyes closed, as though checking for something. But as Iris stepped closer, the brown eyes flew open and both of the men looked straight at her. Milar instantly grabbed his shirt, slipping his arms through the sleeves and began to deftly do up the buttons, avoiding her eye.

“Good morning, Lady Iris.” Both of them murmured.

“Morning. Why are you up so early, the both of you? And are you sick, Milar?”

“It’s habit to wake this early. Wenning began the habit when we were apprentices. Apparently, his views on training haven’t changed.” Lien said. “And no, he’s not sick. At least not terribly. Just a check-up.”

Iris went behind the counter to pour herself a glass of milk. “Are you a Healer, Lien?”

Lien barked a laugh. “Heavens no. I don’t have the gift. But someone that I’m close to is a Healer and we’ve both learned a lot from them.”

“Enough to keep us from dying of a cold, at least. Or, that’s the idea.” Milar smiled ruefully at her, seeming much more at ease in his shirt and he began to tug on his gloves. His hands, Iris noted, had many small white scars along them, blatant against the natural light brown of his skin.

“How’d you find Wenning, if you don’t mind my asking?” Lien questioned. “He’s not big on interacting with people, so how’d you get stuck with him?”

“He saved me, I suppose.”

“Wenning does have a bit of a hero complex. What’d he save you from?”

“I was for sale at an auction for slaves. He bought me, brought me here and said that if I could do some chores, with pay, then I could get a roof over my head, food, clothes and instruction. And am I not the first clairvoyant he’s had? You made a comment last night that…”

You always did love your clairvoyants.

“No, you’re not the first. He’s had a few over the years. The last one was more than thirteen years ago.”

“Did you know them?”

The twist of Milar’s lips wasn’t quite a smile, but Iris didn’t know what else to call it. “Yes. Yes, we did.”

The opening of the front door made Iris jump and turn towards it. The men stayed perfectly calm, but there was something almost tangible about their silence. Dorian stepped through the door, pulling down his hood.

“Morning all.” He said cheerfully.

“Morning.” They chorused.

Dorian stood in front of the men, hands on his hips. “Not going to greet the sun?”

An actual smile upturned both of their lips, but Milar replied. “Apologies, Dorian, but I haven’t greeted the sun in over twenty years. I’m not about to begin again.”

“As for you, young Lien?”

“I’m afraid I’ve never been much of a sun greeter. But I do every now and then. Today is not one of those days.”

Dorian shook his ancient head. “You’re fortunate that the Queen hasn’t found out yet. She would find it a personal insult.”

Milar laughed. “I’ve insulted her personally hundreds of times and I’m still here.”

“That’s because the people in your family are the most stubborn asses about dying. You never want to.” Wenning remarked. As usual, nothing had announced his presence other than his voice.

“That’s because there’s so much to do! How can I die when I haven’t done everything yet?” Milar said.

Wenning said a word in a different language, a word that was an insult from the way he said it, but the three of them laughed at it.

“Your tongue hasn’t gotten much cleaner, has it, Master Reynolds?” Dorian’s wrinkled face was stretched into a broad grin.

Wenning snorted. “Not in the least.” He looked at Iris, who was dressed for lessons. A plain brown robe that she wore open over her day clothes. A pair of shorts and a baggy shirt that she didn’t much care if it got dirty. The calf-high boots had been made for her small feet and it never ceased to be odd to wear them. Iris wasn’t one for bulky clothing, it made her clumsy, something that Wenning would always call attention to. “Did you figure out the assignment I gave you?”

She let him know the answer by thinning her mouth into a firm line and turning so that she wasn’t looking directly at him.

“I take it that’s a no. I’m not surprised.” Iris looked at him in outrage. “You really thought that I expected you to get it the first time?”

“You have such faith in your student.” Milar commented.

“You all turned out okay, didn’t you? In any case, I need you for sparring, Lien. Hand-to-hand.”

Lien nodded. “Sure.”

* * * *

Lien bowed, keeping his eyes on Iris the entire time, like she would attack him if he took his gaze from her. Lien settled back, favoring his weight onto his right leg and kept his posture slack. It was something Wenning was always telling her; if you keep your body loose in a fight, it will be able to react faster than if it were tense. But Iris had never quite been able to let go of her most base instincts that told her muscles to clench at a fight.

Iris watched for any sort of opening, but found none. His guard was perfect. Deciding they’d get nothing done if she stood there all day, Iris jabbed forward, trying, as Wenning had been trying to teach her, to use her clairvoyance to predict opponent’s movements. It worked about 49 percent of the time. This was not part of that percentage because Lien sidestepped it, easily, landing a solid blow to her stomach that left her gasping for air.

“Keep your guard up.” He told her.” It doesn’t matter whether you know what I’m going to do or not if you don’t have the speed to keep up with me. So always have a guard.”

“You’ve grown soft, brother.” Milar called, sitting on the low garden wall that went around the back of the inn. “You used to give me a punch to the stomach and then another punch for having to get the first.”

Lien smiled and nodded at Wenning. “Blame him. He did it to me.”

“Do you let your guard down in a fight?” Wenning growled. “Again, Iris.”

Sighing with resignation, they’d surely be here all morning, Iris jabbed forward, letting her right leg fly forward in a kick aimed for his head. Just as her foot would have reached his cheek, he disappeared and Iris found the ground disappearing from under her. As she looked up, she saw Lien bouncing back easily to his feet after sweeping her legs out from under her.

He offered her a hand up and she accepted it, allowing herself to be pulled to her feet. “Does Wenning teach you nothing in hand-to-hand combat?”

“You think I would neglect training like that?” Wenning said. “It’s not my fault that the both of you are better at the physical aspect of all of this. Besides, she needs to be shown your rather…unorthodox…way of fighting so she can learn to use that clairvoyance of hers properly.”

As the three continued to banter and debate, Dorian sat beside Milar. “Something’s troubling you.” It wasn’t a question.

“Dorian…have you seen my sister in the last eight years?”

Dorian let out a heavy breath. “I see why that would be something that would vex you, lad. But the last time I saw her was about seven years ago. She was healthy. A little thin, but healthy. Physically at least. Mentally, she was all sorts of lost because you weren’t there.”

Milar flinched at the implications. “Did she have a bed, warm clothes, and a roof over her head? Food?”

“Last I saw her, yes. But things change. I think that she would still have sense enough to take care of herself.”

Milar shook his head, burying his face in gloved hands. “No, not if she was caught in the Warped Lands. You’ve seen witches that were sent there. They go in partially whole and never come out, forever broken.”

“Perhaps. But your sister was always different. You all were. And she never had any fear of such things as madness. She simply thought them as another way of seeing, something that she always appreciated. She was of the artist’s mind, for certain.” Dorian cast a careful eye over the man that sat beside him. “I used to see some of you in her all the time. You are very much alike in some ways and so different in others.”

Milar sent him a grateful smile. “Thank you, I suppose. You wouldn’t happen to have an idea where she is now? Any idea at all?”

“No. I’m sorry. You know how those in the Warped Lands are. They show up for a few days before leaving. Your brother saw her more often than I did.”

“I know. And I apologize for this, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask him because I know that it hurts him more than it does you to think of her in the Warped Lands.”

“Aye, lad. I won’t be denying that. But have faith.” As Milar opened his mouth to say something, Dorian ran across him. “I don’t mean in nature, as we’ve both been taught. I don’t ask that you give greetings to the sun and moon and stars or that you pray to invisible gods. I honestly don’t care what you believe, but please, believe in something and have absolute faith in whatever that something is.”

Milar doesn’t look at him, doesn’t seem to be looking at anything really. But Dorian’s reminded that he’s just like his sister sometimes; not always entirely there. But even someone who wasn’t always there, who slipped between realities like quicksilver through shadows, had to believe in something, didn’t they?