Even though it was the dry season, Renado led his men through at least one rainstorm as they crossed the Raderan hills. It was more than halfway through their journey from Ith to Vagren, and Ren had a few crewmen out in the lead for scouting. With low-hanging clouds and torrential downfalls that began as suddenly as they ended, he was fearful they would miss Olston altogether on that rainy day.
Rado was crying, of course, from the thunder, the noise, and all the jerky movements of a brisk hike. Thankfully, the patter of water drops on their leather lamellar and metal plates drowned out the noise. The wet nurse did her best to quiet the babe during the storm’s lulls.
Around dinner time, one of the scouts called back that he had seen Olston. They hiked north for an hour and found the wooden palisades of the hill-town.
It was late enough that Ren decided to put himself and his inner circle up at the Olston’s main inn, the Old Granite. Ren bought his men a drink, and then asked them a question that had been discussed over the last few days. “So, will any of you volunteer?” Ren asked, as they sat around a table.
Woodro would not stay, of course—he glanced down the table at Karsef. The long-serving warrior nodded. “I will stay,” he said. “I’ll protect your nephew, for the sake of the Family.”
Ren blinked. Though it would have felt similar no matter who had volunteered, Ren had not expected any particular one of them. He felt surprised, but also pleased. “Karsef, you would do me and my brother a great service. Prata will stay, of course. I’ll give you enough coin to pay her the rest of the year, until young Rado grows some teeth.”
Karsef nodded. “You lot better come back,” he said, and smirked.
Urro tapped the table and leaned in so he could see around Omma’s broad shoulders. “Sir,” he began, “a few of mine would prefer to stay as well. If that’s an option. They are workers, not fighters.”
“Care for some company, Karsef?” Ren asked. He got a nod from the veteran mercenary. “That’s fine then, Captain. A few can stay,” he called back down the table.
Later that evening, Renado took Virn aside. They sat at the end of the bar, away from the crowd near the barkeeper’s kegs. The quiet warrior scratched the wooden counter with a fingernail, peeling up troughs in the surface. This Circle—or the men and women the Circle created—were uncanny, even after all Ren had seen of their strength. “Virn,” Ren said. “I want to know where you stand… when we get back to Vagren, that is.”
“Kazra and I go our way,” Virn drawled. “You and yours go your way.”
“And if things go sideways for me and mine? You’ve seen how we have been lied to, manipulated. We may not be welcomed back with open arms, now that we know.”
Virn looked at him blankly. His grey eyes were calculating—if they could, through the haze of whatever he had been smoking and drinking that evening. “Magicians have deceit in their veins instead of blood,” Virn said. “I don’t like it, but there’s not much I can do… Gods, but I didn’t get any orders about how to handle the Conclave. No orders to break if I back you—damn it, I guess that’s where we stand.”
“You would back me?” Ren asked.
He got a nod in reply. Then Virn leaned a little closer. “You shouldn’t have to suffer like I have at their hands.”
“What about beyond Vagren?” Renado asked, smiling slyly.
Virn twisted back to the bar and took a drink. He snarled mutely and then dragged his nail through the wood again. “They have my family, remember?” he asked. He waited for a nod from Ren and continued, “But they always will, now.”
They waited quietly for one another to think. Ren glanced around the common room for a moment; Kazra was watching them quietly from a card table where Woodro played. The two had been friendly ever since their attack on the Mage Kings, but Kazra was more focused on her mission than Virn. She watched, though she could not hear the conversation at the bar.
Virn turned back to Ren at last, and there was a wild desperation in his eyes. They flicked sharply from Ren to some focus beyond Ren, beyond the inn room. “I’ve run from this group once,” he said, “and they had the power to bring me back—my wife, my children.”
“I know,” Ren said.
“So you have to promise me two things, if you want my sword at your side,” Virn stammered hoarsely. “When you’re done your plan with the Grey Brethren and Gravagan, you will help me kill the leaders of the Circle. It has to end.”
Ren stared at the intimidating warrior with wide eyes. “I’ll swear to that,” he said. I’ve grown so tired of these damned magicians… he thought. Bringing down their allies would be almost as sweet as putting a knife to Gravagan’s lying tongue. “And the second promise?”
Virn nodded. “I will not choose you over my own kin. If the Circle bring them again and threaten them again before me… I will not choose you.”
“Of course,” Ren said. “Nor I.”
When Ren held out his hand for a shake, Virn clasped it. Ren glanced at Woodro’s card table, but Kazra had stepped out. Ren turned back to Virn, patted him on the shoulder, and bought him another drink.
The next morning, a thin mist rolled through the hills around Olston. Renado and his men set out early. Rado had already been up for a suckle and then back to sleep, but Ren knelt by his small, blanket-made cot, and kissed his forehead. He told Rado he would bring his father back for him; he swore it. And to Karsef, Ren gave a firm clasp to his hand and words of praise. “You’ve been invaluable at my side, Karsef,” he said. “And now you are invaluable at Rado’s. I cannot thank you enough.”
With that, Ren’s group carried on to the east, across the hills. Vagren—and the magicians—awaited them.