The World Within the Web

by Lord Max

Chapter XXXVIII: Let Go

There was a pain in Proximo’s scar. That was a feeling he had not had in some time, nor ever expected again. But there it was.

Of course, it wasn’t truly a scar anymore. The blood was proof enough of that, hidden as it might now be under the wrappings over his chest.

He remembered when that wound was last open. A flash of steel raking across him. Brown mud intermingling with long red rivers. Weeks and months, insensible then raving then miserable, wasting away, halfway between life and death. Proximo hoped to never see Hell, but once he could scarcely imagine it being worse than that hospital bed.

And now, he thought, I am not so certain. Was that what he saw, in that vision? Hell and damnation. Or perhaps not. The place he saw was not so foreign to him. Never had he seen the black water, the great columns of dark fire, the pale, horrid shapes from behind mist-waves. And yet, he had seen that place—the Dreamweave, ruined but recognizable. A nightmare, he hoped. But part of him worried that it was something else entirely. A vision, not yet realized. A future to come.

Proximo shivered. Lying in his bed, alone in his room, there was no one to see his fear. But it was not a time to be afraid. Lord Mars will know better. They had sent word to the Citadel, but time was needed to ascertain such things, and it had not yet been so long. 

And I have other things to worry about. He knew that Lady Violet and the others had returned from Nightside some time ago. Most of the others, but not all. Where are you, Coin Counter? No searching had revealed where he was, though there were still some at work finding him. As soon as a man disappeared, however, they had evacuated the lady back to the Palace, despite her objections. Now she was fretting, but demanding Proximo did not do the same. He wanted to help, but she insisted that her assistant rest.

He couldn’t hardly blame her. Men being struck down by some spectral force, seeing visions and having their chests opened up was not something to take lightly. Frankly, though, his wound was barely even noticeable, just open enough to bleed. A nuisance. But a nuisance that would keep him confined.

Proximo did not sleep. Part of him wanted to—he was exhausted, in truth. Seeing Imelda earlier has perked him up, but she had left some time ago, and he’d been alone since. The hours weighed on him. How long has it been since I had a decent night’s rest? He did not want to think about it. But he did not sleep. Not with so much on his mind. And not with the dreams, either.

They had been growing worse and worse. Dreams of grey wraiths and cursed eyes, watching him, and a voice that spoke loathsome things. He had blamed it on nerves at first, but after what he had just seen? Worse and worse. And each time, somehow, similar to the nightmarish thing he had witnessed earlier that day. He felt like weights were strapped to his eyelids, and yet he dared not close them for long. 

Proximo sighed, fiddling with Jestin’s watch. Or Cabrio’s watch, now that he thought of it. Technically it had belonged to the guard before the Warden. Still, he preferred to think of the bronze timepiece as a gift of Jestin’s more than anything. Lying in bed, surrounded by confusion, afflicted by who knows what, Proximo found it more important than ever to recall laughter.

Still restless, Proximo tossed in his bed. He was surprised to see that the door was open. He was more surprised to see that he was not alone.

Yelping, Proximo groped for a shirt to cover himself with, when light flooded into the room.

“Good Lord, Proximo,” said a familiar voice, “You own a hundred shirts, and can’t be bothered to wear one? What happened to the fashionable brother I knew?”

“Gallia!” Proximo fought the urge to throw something, and groaned. “Six save me, how do you keep finding where I stay?”

Gallia drew away from the lamp, yawning. “I have my ways, Proxi. Ascribe it to familial instinct, if it comforts you.”

“Is it Withins-Bei again?” Proximo snatched up a shirt and threw it on, working the buttons as best he could. “You shouldn’t trust him. He’s a spy for the white hats.”

His sister did not seem put off. “Truly? How interesting. I did not take him for the Moderator type.”

“Gallia, it’s an ungodly hour. What could you possibly want?”

“A great many things, as always.” She meandered lazily over to Proximo’s wardrobe, opening it with a finger. “I am surprised you need ask, though. Would I not be concerned, what with you injured?”

“How did you— oh, never mind.” Trying to ask Gallia anything was usually pointless. “Well, here I am, alive and well. I’m barely even hurt, so you needn’t worry. What else?” He saw her rifling through his clothing. “Don’t touch that.”

“Devio’s hand, do you have anything that isn’t white or violet? You aren’t an eggplant, brother.”

“They’re my colors now, and they suit me well. Not all of us look good in green.” Gallia did not cease pawing through his things. “Would you stop?”

She looked up momentarily. “What about that, then?” She gestured to the watch in Proximo’s hand. “A little dull, isn’t it?”

“It was a gift,” Proximo grumbled, “and a useful one at that.” He tossed it into an open suitcase before Gallia could demand it from him. “Now, get out with it so I can go back to sleep.”

“Rude, impatient, unfashionable. Are there three greater crimes?” Before Proximo could fire back, she went on. “I have heard much of the peril you have encountered, of late. I thought perhaps a brush with danger might make you reconsider Father’s offer.”

“No.”

“Petulance will get you nowhere, Proxi.”

“Six save me, you still don’t understand it, do you?” Proximo rubbed at his temples. “You’re saying that the threat would make me want to leave? You’re wrong. It means all the more reason for me to stay. I cannot abandon my friends in danger. Will not.”

Gallia sighed. “You are like to drive me past despair, Proxi. What will it take? I remind you, I am prepared to steal your luggage, if I must.”

“You are welcome to try.” Proximo lay back in the bed, head against the board, facing the wall. “I am not returning, Gallia, and you can tell Father as much. You’re asking me to choose between staying with my friend and . . . what? You have nothing to hold over me. Nothing at all.”

Gallia tilted her head at that. “Not even Aloysia?”

There was a moment’s temptation. Proximo could imagine her face, his baby sister, now years older, but with all her same happiness. For a moment, he wanted little else but to see her again. A moment.

He shook his head. “I can’t believe that you would use her as some tool to drag me back. No, I take it back, I can believe it. Either way, the answer is the same.”

Gallia let out another sigh. “So be it. I shall see you again soon, I am certain.” She went to leave.

Proximo’s face twisted. “Fine then. Do what you wish, Gallia. You always do.” He did not watch her go.

Left alone, Proximo hit his head against the backboard, though it did nothing for his frustration. He tossed over, shirt still half-buttoned, and resolved to sleep again.

There was a knock behind him. Proximo groaned. “For a happy moment, I really thought you’d leave. Can’t I get a moment’s peace?”

“In this job, my faithful assistant? Not likely.”

Proximo sprang up. “My lady!” he said with a bow. Lady Violet stood in the doorway, expectantly. “Ah, apologies, I thought you were Gallia.”

“Perish the thought. I would need to improve my habit of annoying you to new heights.” She was still wearing the coat she had donned before venturing into the city, having wound it tightly around herself. She leaned against the doorframe. “I owe my own apologies—I shouldn’t wake you.”

Proximo waved a hand. “Gallia took care of that already. Besides, you know I’d rather be awake.” He propped himself up in bed. “Is there news yet, my lady?”

She shook her head. “That’s what worries me most. Hours, and still not thread or hair of Sir Coin. What’s become of him?”

Proximo knew her well enough to see worries beyond those she voiced. “You can talk to me about it, my lady.”

She smiled wanly. “I always can. Thank you, Proxi.” The smile left as quickly as it came, leaving a tired expression on her face. “Truthfully, there has been much on my mind of late.”

She approached the bed—obliging, Proximo moved his legs and let her sit. “Proximo,” she began, “I recall what you said to me earlier, about the . . . incident you underwent. I feared for you, my friend. But now that I’ve thought more about it, I wonder if I should not fear for myself as well.” Lady Violet offered him a grave look. “Proximo, I believe I have seen something similar.”

Proximo gaped. “My lady?”

“Not in a vision like yours,” she said immediately. “But something. Proximo . . . now, don’t think me a fool for asking, but have your dreams been dark, of late?”

“Yes.” Proximo said it immediately, as childish as it seemed to admit it. 

Lady Violet shivered. “Mine as well. I have . . . seen things, in those dreams. I don’t know what it means, if it means anything. I might have blamed them on the job, but now I am not so certain. They grow worse by the night as well.” She leaned back, her eyes closed. “I truly cannot tell you how long I have been, Proxi, without good sleep.”

Proximo could see that. Her face was flushed, eyes seeming more hollow than usual. “I’ve been the same,” he confessed. He had not wanted to say it before, whether for fear of being ridiculed or told to rest from the work at hand. But if was not the only one feeling it? Six save me, what is happening? 

Lady Violet seemed to have the same unspoken question. “I wish I knew the answers to this. I have consulted with friends who might know better, but I doubt that what we hear will reassure us. Late hours spent awake have given me time to think.” She rested her hands on her forehead, massaging gently. “I wonder, Proximo, if I have not made a mistake.”

“What do you mean?” Proximo asked.

Before she could answer, someone else darkened the door. “My lady?” said Jorama, hand at her golden scarf.

Lady Violet recovered herself immediately, and stood. “Well?”

“He has returned, Lady-Warden.”

Lady Violet’s eyes widened. “Lead me there, I must speak with him immediately.”

Proximo scrambled to his feet and began to follow. He was part-way through putting on his shoes when Lady Violet gave a prim cough. “Ah, Mister Hart?” She gestured to his chest.

He looked down to see his shirt only half-buttoned, chest open to the world. “Ah,” Proximo said, red in the face, “right.” A small smile crossed the lady’s face while he buttoned up the view.

Proximo put himself together as they walked, briskly as they could, through the halls. They crossed the halls and rooms, until they reach Lady Violet’s quarters, flanked with guards. 

The Warden of Honesty stood among them. The giant gave a nod to Lady Violet as she approached. “He is within.”

Lady Violet gestured, and the door was opened. Inside, Coin Counter sat alone, and unharmed. 

It was a relief to see, but Proximo relaxed only slightly. In his appearance, Coin did not look hurt. Disheveled, maybe—his clothes were roughed, his red hair in disarray—but Proximo could see no wounds on him. His expression, though, was troubled.  

“Oh, thank the Six.” Lady Violet rushed in, letting Proximo and the Warden follow behind. 

Coin bowed his head. “My lady.”

“I think we can dispense with the pleasantries, no?” She gave a relieved laugh. “You had me more than worried, sir. There was half a moment when I feared the worst.” She eyed him carefully. “Was it them, sir? Your hosts?”

Coin nodded.

Proximo sucked in a breath. At last. That Coin returned at all was a good sign. Hopefully.

“And Dabrius?” Lady Violet asked, leaning in.

“With them.”

“Six save us,” Proximo sputtered. “They did have him.”

“But, my lady, they didn’t take him,” Coin continued quickly.

“What?” Proximo thought he’d misheard for a moment. “How do you mean?”

“They claim to have found him, down in that tunnel we were exploring, just earlier today.” Coin looked around to see skeptical expressions. “It’s hard to believe, I know. But I think it’s the truth.”

Lady Violet was regarding his words carefully, so Proximo spoke for her. “They found him?” he repeated. “Prime suspects in murder cases do not merely appear in secret headquarters. How is it possible that anyone else would even know where to place him?”

Coin seemed at a loss for words. “I’m sorry,” he said eventually, “but I truly don’t know. He was unharmed, at the least.”

“If you spoke with them,” Lady Violet said, “then there is much for us to discuss.” She turned to Proximo and Honesty. “My friends, would you allow us the room? It would be best for this to continue in confid—”

But before she could continue, Coin cut in. “I’m sorry, my lady, but I would rather they stay.”

All eyes went to Coin. Proximo looked at the man, confused. Beside him, the Warden of Honesty rumbled. "The lady commanded. You obey."

Coin seemed reluctant, but still pressed on. "I'm sorry, my lord, but I cannot."

"Sir," Lady Violet said again, "I understand that you're under the stress of the moment, but we truly ought to--"

"My lady," Coin asked, "is it true that you knew of the Changelings before we arrived here?"

Silence. Proximo tilted his head at Coin. "Pardon?"

"The Changelings. They claimed that Lady Violet was the one that organized and funded them. Is that true?"

Proximo scoffed. "That's ridiculous. I never heard of such a thing."

"A lie," the Warden of Honesty concurred gruffly.

"Am I lying?" Coin asked.

The Warden examined him for a moment, a glint in his golden eye. "No," he said. "Only because you believe it. Still false."

Coin crossed his arms. "They seemed certain. Can you say the same?"

"Yes," Proximo and the Warden both answered, without hesitation. Proximo continued on. "We never heard a word about this Society before we came here, none of us. I don't even know how we would move that manner of funding. It’s absurd, frankly.” He looked to Lady Violet, for her own dismissal.

But Lady Violet did not answer. She looked at Coin, her face placid. But beneath that, Proximo could see more. The smallest, wriggling doubt, behind her eyes.

“My lady?” Proximo asked again.

A grunt came from the Warden of Honesty. “Owes answers to nether of you. No right to make demands. Obey.”

“But all the same,” Coin said carefully, “she has not denied it.”

Lady Violet narrowed her eyes. “Very well, sir. I deny it wholly. Now must I answer more questions from you, or will you deem to answer mine?”

But Proximo could see it. The slightest tenor in her voice, a stiffness in her stance, the care she took in choosing words. It leaped out to him, someone who knew her better than any other. It told him something was wrong.

Proximo’s eyes widened. “Oh Six save me,” he said, taking a step back, “it’s true.”

Lady Violet shot a sharp look to Proximo, and the Warden one even sharper. “Thinking wrong,” Honesty snapped. “Repeating falsehoods. Not right.”

“It isn’t a falsehood,” Proximo insisted. Pieces were fitting together in his mind, from words that were said or things he had seen, turning with the key that Coin had just said. “Our source of information in the Dreamweave,” he said, thinking back weeks ago. “My lady, the reason you did not tell me who it was when I asked . . . I thought they were courtiers or merchants we had paid off, but they weren’t. It was them.” There was a sinking feeling in his stomach, as he grasped at the thought. “My lady,” he said, advancing forward, “please tell me this isn’t true.”

Before Proximo could take the step, the Warden of Honesty cut between them. “Back,” he growled, shielding the lady.

“If you are so sure, my lord, then ask her,” Proximo pressed. “You know when men lie, do you not? Turn that eye to her, and tell me who is false.”

That eye narrowed. “Never,” the Warden replied, voice hot with anger. “Speak from ignorance, not truth. Know nothing. Nothing.”

Yet as Honesty spoke, Proximo could see a change in Lady Violet’s expression. Discomfort raced across her face, and her nails dug more into her crossed arms.

Not noticing, Honesty continued. “Say no more. Silent. Learn to obey, or we will—”

“I am sorry, my friend,” said Lady Violet, sad and slow. “But it is true.”

The shock in the room was powerful enough to make hairs stand on end. The accusations on Honesty’s lips died immediately, replaced with a silent stare.

“Light of life,” Coin muttered.

Proximo felt much the same. “My lady,” he said, “you lied to me! I thought I . . .” His face screwed up. “Why?”

Lady Violet hesitated a moment, but only that long. “I can tell you the ‘why’ of it,” she said, “if you will listen to the ‘how’ first.”

She took long, elegant steps to cross the room, standing before the only window, clasped firmly shut. The light of the moon and stars was wan, the light of the lamps orange-gold, and the tone of Lady Violet was calm and cool as still water. “There was a message,” she began, “some time before all this business began. Before Dabrius was accused, before he even arrived. Before that young man burned himself alive, even. I knew of the Dreamweave prior to its coming, of course—no site in the Web bans our fandom without my knowing. This letter offered a solution.

“I am not one to turn help away, Proximo, nor friends. The message provided both. All that was needed was money and supplies, and some information I could happily dig up on their behalf.”

“Funds of the Generous Friends,” interjected Proximo, “and spies from our branch. How did I not know?”

“Not every spy lies with the Generous,” she replied, “and there are always things that I alone know. Confidential things, Proximo, and this is no different.”

“Confidential?” Coin repeated in disbelief. “I don’t expect to know everything, but how long have we been here? Weeks, going mad on this damned island, and all this time you’ve know who—”

“Who the Changelings were?” Lady Violet flashed him a look. “I have known nothing of the sort. If I did, I would not have needed Dabrius to tell me. If I did, this might have ended in short order. I had no such advantage. There was secrecy at every level, in every communication. Pseudonyms and codewords at all turns, forward and back. If you truly met them, Sir Coin, I expected you would have understood that their paranoia had no bounds. Though,” she said with a mirthless laugh, “I suppose they’ve been proven right. At least they trusted well in Dabrius—it took lengths like you would not know to convince them to meet an agent in the flesh, and only after they were certain that he would keep confidence. Even from me.”

“So yes, perhaps Coin does speak true. In a certain way. I knew they existed, I sent them funds and whispers and whatever else they needed to gain trust and build a network. I gave them the advice they needed to influence the court to favor our fandom. I even gave the Society that droll nickname, which seemed so much more clever at the time. But I could not have solved this mystery any quicker than you did, and you would not have solved it any quicker had I told you. So there it is. The truth, in this instance, was on a need-to-know basis. And you did not need.”

Proximo stiffened. “The other wardens—”

“Do not know,” the lady finished. “Or, at the least, I did not tell them. The burden was not theirs to bear. This was my task. My duty, and mine alone. It was no different from what I have done elsewhere, and sometimes with your knowledge and approval, Proximo. That is the job, and nothing less. And here, the burden was not yours, either.”

“Burden?” Proximo exploded. “This is not charity, my lady, this is bold-faced lying to everyone. To me, of all people!” He felt like such an idiot, not having seen it earlier. Shame stacked up atop hurt, atop betrayal. “Six save me, what was I thinking?” Proximo could understand confidentiality, and secrecy. He had never expected to know everything. But this was far beyond the pale, to have been not only keep in the dark, but deceived straight to his face. He could only imagine that Coin felt the same. “Have I not earned trust, my lady? Why did you—"

“Not everything,” Lady Violet said calmly, “is yours to know.”

Proximo knew that tone: the staid voice of cool command. Lady Violet used it for diplomacy, at times when words had to be chosen most carefully. He had heard it before countless times, even in the Dreamweave: against Halforth, against Vaar, against Pilara and Aureliano and Arcadio. Against enemies, and not friends. That alone shocked him more than anything.

“You do not command me, Proximo, nor does Sir Coin. I am the one that moves pieces where they need to go, and the one that feels the consequences when the battles are lost. I would not wish that weight on you, even if I thought I could pass it on. There are dangers involved on a scale you cannot possibly fathom, not having served in this role yourself. Hundreds of sites, thousands of lives, can hinge on what a few people at the center do. Our fandom was born in war—I saw it myself. So much has been done to build my friends up since then, but can you imagine what might happen if a single thing I do goes awry? If I make a single mistake, here in this city, right now?”

The look she offered was pained, but she did not relent. “You ask me these questions, all of you, but there are none I have not already asked myself, and none that I was comfortable in answering. Perhaps you do not care for those answers either. But the point is that you are not the one that has to answer them. It’s on my head. If I must do something wrong to do what’s right, that pain is mine, as is the consequence of not acting when I should have. Everyone is depending on me. I will not fail.”

From when her last word sank in, a deep silence set upon the room. It never ceased to amaze Proximo that, even when the entire audience was against her, Lady Violet could still make them hang on every word.

There was, at last, truth, and understanding with it. Hearing the lady explain it made Proximo want to collapse. The weight she described . . . perhaps he could feel it, and had felt it in some measure. All the times he had worried about hurting Imelia—when he himself had wrestled with piling hurts on another—had been about truth as well. In the end, whatever he had resolved to do, he had not needed to make that choice between lies and honesty—Imelia had chosen for him. And Coin, Proximo knew, must have felt the same, misleading the Mods as they had.

Now multiply that by a thousand fold, Proximo thought woefully. Imagine it in every decision Violet has made. He tried to recall all of the choices he had seen her make, all the disasters averted, the crises avoided, the threats dealt with. How many lives may have been at stake, had they failed. Six save me, how many might there have been?

Proximo bowed his head. He saw Coin show a measure of doubt as well. They, the both of them, did understand. And yet  . . .

And yet, that did not mean he was wrong. “My lady,” Proximo said quietly, “I know why you did it. I do. But something like this? On this scale? We should have known. We’re your friends.”

“This is about protecting my friends.” Lady Violet rubbed at her temples. “We all make sacrifices for the people we care about. That is why you, Proximo, have not seen your family in years. That’s why, Sir Coin, you are no longer a knight in truth. Giving up a part of yourself—that is what being generous means.”

Her expression was somehow both apologetic and fully resolved. “I am sorry if this hurt you. It hurt me to do it. But if anyone learned about this, if a single word of it could have possibly gone to someone willing to use that knowledge against us, everything would be undone. So if I must sacrifice truth on the altar for the greater good, I will do so, and would do it again.” She looked down at her hands. “Is that wrong, Proximo? Is it truly?”

Proximo realized that she was really asking. Not even for a point, but because she did not know herself. “I . . . I do not know,” he answered. That much, at least, was true. Coin could add nothing, his head tilted down.

“You lied to us,” someone said.

All that time, the Warden of Honesty had said nothing. He listened, blank in the face, silent as the grave. It was only then, as though his mind had finally caught up to what Lady Violet said, that a growing terror showed on his face.

If there was sadness in Lady Violet’s expression when facing Proximo and Coin, it was doubled now that she saw the Warden. She did not seem to know what to say. “My honest friend,” she eventually began, reaching out her hand for his.

The giant’s hand shot away, wrenched aside as the Warden of Honesty stepped back. Back, and away from her.

Proximo had grown to know the Warden well. Just as he could read meanings into even the most placid expression of Lady Violet, he had begun to understand that there was more feeling than he once thought beneath the scowls and blank stares of the Warden of Honesty. Proximo had seen unexpected things behind the golden veil of that single eye before. Anger, during the Warden’s slaughter of the assassins. But concern and worry, when he thought Violet or his friends hurt. Iron conviction, fanaticism for the faith of Six. But, at the same time, regret and remorse. And doubt.

It was not merely doubt in the Warden’s eye now. Proximo had never seen the emotion so plainly written on the Warden’s face before. Pain—sheer, naked pain—yes, but confusion as well. Proximo could see thoughts racing in the Warden’s mind, but none that could make sense of what he was hearing. An unstoppable conviction was meeting an undeniable truth, and he could not comprehend the collision.

As horrible as it was, the expression on the Warden’s face was like that of a dog, kicked by its master. It was the look of someone who had been hurt, cut more deeply than they thought possible, and by the person they trusted most. And they could not understand why.

“Would never lie to us,” the Warden whispered. He did not understand.

Lady Violet had seemed pained before, trying to explain herself to her assistant and her friend, but she still seemed certain of her choice. The Warden banished that. The look of cool command melted away, and a look of horror took its place. “Honesty,” she said, formality dissolving, “my lord, my honest friend, listen to me, you must understand, I— I know it hurts to hear it, but I had to. If you knew, you would have told them, Halforth, all of them, if they had asked, don’t you see? They— they would have taken it as proof!”

She raced through words, stammering and stumbling, anything to make the Warden stop shrinking away from her. “Conspiracy! It’s what all of this is about, Sir Harald’s murder and what they said about Dabrius, and, and the Changelings as well, but— but Honesty, I did help them, so if anyone found out, they would have . . . would have . . . oh, Six save me, Honesty you have to understand, I never meant to hurt you in all this, please—”

“Lie,” the Warden said softly. But not to her.

When she saw the Warden twitch, Lady Violet’s hand shot to her mouth. “Oh, God.”

“God,” the Warden choked, convulsing.

Proximo’s eyes widened. He had seen all of this before—weeks prior, when he and Violet had argued over Sir Alwin. That evening, when all the Warden’s convictions had been shaken, Proximo had seen his voice fail him, his huge body falter, his mind seem stricken, though Proximo could not understand how or why. Something about that moment had made the Warden—undefeatable in all else—fall, and it was happening again.

The Warden had collapsed to one knee, head twitching violently, his eye rolling back into his skull. His armored fists curled up, tightening so much that Proximo worried he would break his own fingers. “My lord!” Proximo cried, moving towards him. “My lord, are—"

“Fool,” the Warden croaked, “Fool.” The words came from his mouth like a strangled gasp, and the voice from his mouth . . .

It was not the voice of the Warden of Honesty.

Proximo moved back so quickly that he stumbled over, a sudden madness in his panic. Coin sprang from his chair, reaching to his belt for a sword that was not there, fear alive in his face. The same fear in Proximo. I know that voice, he thought with dread. The dreams. That nightmarish, black voice that had spoken to him. It was as though he was back in the phantasm, surrounded by grey wraiths and yellow eyes. A voice so vile that it made his stomach churn just to hear it. It came from the Warden. Oh God, how . . .

Lady Violet did not hesitate. The Warden’s face was twisting, mouth and brow curling into a mask of immense pain, eye showing white alone. His body jerked involuntarily, in the manner of a stroke, twitching with such strength that Proximo had the panicked thought that he would strike at Violet—she would not walk away from such a blow. And yet, in a motion, as a reflex, as though without even the moment’s fear, Violet reached out and took the bent Warden’s head in her hands, and in his ear whispered words that Proximo could not hear.

When she took a halting step away, the Warden seemed to still, like a machine shut off. It was only then that Proximo saw how pale, how terrified, her expression was, as she fell back against the wall.

For an eternity, the three of them watched, and waited. The Warden’s eye had roll back in place, and his limbs were motionless. All of was quiet. The moments stretched out, seemingly endless, before any of them felt safe to speak.

“What the hell was that?” Proximo whispered at last, back against the wall. “That voice, it was the one from—”

“The dreams,” Sir Coin gasped. “You too? In my vision, I heard it there as well. It spoke to me!”

“And to me,” Lady Violet whispered.

Proximo gaped at him, then to her, then to the Warden. “What is this?” He pressed himself firmer still against the stones. “What is he?”

The fear still lingered in Lady Violet’s expression. She opened her mouth to answer, but stopped herself. “I don’t entirely know,” she said at last.

“Please,” said Coin, “no more lies. No more cryptic talk, I can’t bear it.”

“I am not lying,” Violet insisted. “I think we are all past that, at this point. But what little I know . . .” She looked to the Warden, half-afraid. “It is not for me to tell. I promised him I would not.”

“Promised him?” Proximo asked, taken aback even more. “The Warden of Honesty asked you to keep something secret?” It was so extraordinary that Proximo couldn’t even believe it was a lie. Lady Violet was a far better liar than that. “What did—”

“We must go,” the Warden of Honesty said suddenly.

Everyone made an involuntary jump back as the Warden spoke and stood. Remnants of his shocked look remained on his face, but only traces—as though all resolve had returned, his expression returned to its ordinary stone-like state. He began to walk to the door.

“My friend? My honest friend?” Lady Violet asked hesitantly. “Where are you—”

“Halforth,” the Warden grunted, reaching for the door.

“No.”

The Warden of Honesty froze in place, hand outstretched, and turned his eye around to face Violet. There was some measure of fear on her face, but even as the Warden of Honesty loomed over her, large enough to break her like a twig, she stood her ground.

“You will go nowhere,” she said steadfastly. “You will remain here, and not speak of this. That is my order.”

Proximo buried his face in his hands. “My lady,” he said, exhausted, “we can’t keep this up any longer.”

“Are you suggesting,” Lady Violet said, “that you will tell Halforth?”

“Yes,” said Coin, standing up straight.

“I think not. Because you understand the consequences, both of you. What do you suppose will happen, when Halforth learns of this? I think you can imagine well enough. Is that a risk you are willing to take?” No response came. “My honest friend, the consequences of truth are no concern to you. I love you for that, but I still cannot allow it. Will you disobey?”

The Warden not taken another step since the order came. He looked to Violet, his expression unreadable. “We cannot,” he admitted. “But we cannot hide this truth. Let us go.”

“No.”

“Please,” he said quietly.

She shook her head. “No words I can say will ever sway your mind. It is no fault of yours, but I will never convince you. But I do not have to. You have your orders.”

“Have you not said,” the Warden of Honesty began, “that we must think more for ourselves? As a person? Not just orders?”

Those words seemed to strike deep. Lady Violet was, for a moment, speechless. “This will hurt people, Honesty. Friends. I cannot allow that.”

The Warden bowed his head. “We will allow no hurt to friends. Would never act to cause it. Never.”

“Whether you choose it to hurt someone means nothing. It will nonetheless.”

“We can set it right. Save friends. Not hurt.”

Violet looked at him in with a sad and desperate look. “I’ve seen this before. Not long ago, that night when the anonymites came, after you had threatened Sir Alwin. You had collapsed then, as well, and when you woke you pointed a sword at your own neck. I had to stop you. Don’t you see that this is the same?”

“It is not.” He took a gentle step forward, but halted as he saw her tense. “This one has learned. Learned much. From you, and others. Were wrong before.” He raised his head, his look distant. “Still hard to admit. The way of this one not always right. Things we did not see. Things we should not do. But this,” he said with a gesture to the door, “is right. No alternative, to save them.”

“The Warden is right.” Proximo stood up straight. “My lady, how can we possibly keep this up? The truth is out—we cannot put the cork back in the bottle. Even if we wished to, how can it be done? You and us, the Changelings, the Martes, the Moderators. There are too many moving parts, too many variables, too many to hide it from, or to expect to hide it. It will get out, one way or the other.”

“Halforth already knows it,” said Coin. “He just can’t prove it. It won’t matter, if he launches a red rinse.”

Proximo nodded. “We can either come clean now, or simply watch him infer the truth later, when his guess will be enough to condemn us anyways.” He braced himself against the table. “I don’t know if it was right to conceal this before, but there is no way that we can do it now.”

Lady Violet could see that it was three against one. “Halforth,” she said, “is not reasonable. The reasons for withholding all of this will not matter to him. He will not listen.”

“He will listen to us,” said the Warden. “There is a way. End lie, protect friends. Both. We know how. You taught us.”

Lady Violet squeezed at her temples. “I have taught you, but not enough. You don’t know how to speak to lords or judges.”

“Halforth is different. Is like us. Like this one.”

“He is the only one we need to convince.” Proximo ran the scenario through his head. “There are three judges to decide Dabrius’ fate, and ours. Sir Borlund is lost, but Sir Alwin is already with us. Lord Halforth is the last, and he is the only one who can call off the red rinse as well. It does not matter what the Martes or anyone else thinks—only him.” The more he considered it, the more sense it made. “My lady, I think the Warden should try.”

Coin jumped in. “We have tried everything else, and all it did was lead us here.” He looked to the lady. “Halforth can be swayed, by the right voice. What else is left?”

There came a knock at the door.

It was as if an Engine at full speed had come to a sudden, jerking halt. Everyone went quiet. Proximo might have wondered who could possibly be demanding time from them at such an hour, but part of his mind already worked out the answer. The guards down the hall were not to interrupt under any circumstances. He could imagine only one other that would still be working feverishly so late at night, still be awake to send representatives to the Wardens. A creeping dread worked across Proximo.

Lady Violet seemed at a loss. No doubt she’s having the same thought as me. If that was true, though, it meant that she had little choice. “Enter,” she said, weakly.

Cellia Ravenry stepped in, hesitantly. “My lady,” she said. “Sir,” she added to Sir Coin. “Lord Halforth demands to see you.”

Lady Violet gaped. “Regarding what?”

Cellia bit her lip. “I cannot say. I was surprised when his honor asked for your presence at this hour. I had expected to find you abed.” 

Proximo noticed a certain fatigue as Cellia spoke. He had the distinct feeling that this night had not been much easier for her. It is about to get worse.

“There’s nothing you can tell us?” Coin asked.

The Peacekeeper rubbed at her eyes. “I am truly uncertain. There was another person there, when he sent for you. I do not know who, some Dreamweave lordling alongside Lord Albright.”

“Oh no,” Proximo heard Coin murmur.

Lady Violet waved him to silence. “I will proceed there posthaste. But, Miss Ravenry, could you allow us the room a moment longer?”

Cellia opened her mouth to object, but glanced around the room. Then, she nodded and shut the door behind her.

“Time is up,” said Coin.

Lady Violet stood alone, and looked at the door like it was the mouth of Hell. “There is a way around this. I . . . I just need a moment.” Her fingers dug into her forehead. “I can do it. I have to. Remain here, this is the only way—”

“Yes,” said the Warden, “this is.” Standing between her and the door, the Warden extended to her an enormous hand. “Do not need to carry burden any longer. This one will take it. We will do this thing.”

“I can’t,” Lady Violet whispered, exhausted. “My honest friend, I—”

“You always said,” the Warden began, “that this one could be better. Be more. You said this. Was it true?”

She had no reply. Violet closed her eyes, head tilted to the floor, then wiped at them with a shaky hand. “I am so tired,” she said numbly, after a moment. She shook her head. “It was true. It still is. I believe in you. But you must promise me—promise me—that you will be careful. So much at risk. It will not be easy.”

“We know,” said the Warden, as he walked to the door.

They went together. Cellia led them forward, but otherwise they walked side-by-side, all of them, through the Palace of Aureliano. They walked silently. Nervousness radiated off Cellia. Lady Violet had recovered much of her poise, but her eyes betrayed her. The stony face of the Warden of Honesty betrayed nothing.

Coin was no longer with them. Lady Violet’s last instructions to him were clear. “Many of our friends are now abed. Rouse them, and ready them,” she had said.

“I can,” Coin had replied, with some reluctance. “But ready them for what?” To fight? was the unspoken question.

Lady Violet did not say as much. “I truly do not know. Something will happen when we enter those chambers. We might be saved, or doomed, and I cannot say which. But I believe that whatever it is, you will feel it echo in ever hall in this Palace. Be ready, for when we emerge.” And so Coin had taken his leave, and left them all with one fewer friend walking to Halforth’s chambers.

There was nothing but the sound of their own feet as they walked. The Palace halls were empty in the dead of night, lit by nothing but dimming lamps and the faint moonlight.

Proximo walked numbly, as though someone else was steering his limbs. He wondered if his own unease was obvious as well—if someone could look at him and recognize anxiety. And fear. He knew what lay at the end of this. There was good reason to be afraid.

None of them spoke when they reached the door. It seemed to loom very large. No one went to open it.

Cellia’s voice was low. “Sir Alwin and Sir Borlund are present. As is Lord Albright. I did not see her other Prefects, but then I never think they’re in the room until they appear. Percy and Abi are down in the city.” She paused. “Be careful. I don’t imagine I will be able to help you more, once we are in there.”

“Thank you, Cellia,” said Lady Violet. She looked up to the Warden. “Are you ready?”

He nodded solemnly. Without another word, Cellia threw open the door.

Proximo found them all present, just as Cellia had warned. At the center of Halforth’s sparse chambers, there rested a table. On its left side was Sir Borlund Barr, his thick neck bulging with veins and his face hot and red. To the right, Sir Alwin Cameron sat quietly. Standing to the side was the slim, white-clad form of Lord Albright, an odd smile dancing on her lips as they entered.

In the middle of them all was Lord Halforth, radiating anger, with Withins-Bei at his side.

“Ah,” said Halforth, “our resident horse-lovers.” His words were curt and clipped, as though he were biting them off at the end. “I have been hearing interesting talk from this revolting halfwit sitting beside me. If what he tells me is true, it would appear you have a profound interest in being hanged.”

“You always did know how to broach a subject, Brother Halforth,” said Lord Albright, that smile remaining static on her face.

“Quiet,” he snapped. “If even half of what slithered out of this creature’s mouth is accurate, I doubt your answers will even be necessary, horse-lovers. And yet for some ridiculous reason, I feel compelled to ask regardless. Because I have heard,” Halforth continued, hawkish eyes narrowing, “that your agents both traced and made contact with a certain secret society in this city. That, indeed, there has been a sustained, successful, and wholly undisclosed relationship with these individuals over the course of this entire investigation.”

Proximo had grown to know the Lord Moderator well over the past weeks. Never before had he seen Halforth like this. It was not merely in the way he spoke, his usually staid voice laced venom and contempt. His thin face somehow seemed more hollow in the cheeks than usual, and his eyes hinting at dark rings. Surely his head and shoulders were not always so stooped, either. In his tired mind, Proximo wondered idly if the Lord Moderator was perhaps just as exhausted as the Bronies were. Absurd as it sounded, Proximo had never thought of Lord Halforth as a man who needed rest or sleep, but his appearance suggested otherwise.

Proximo did not have any more chance for idle wondering. Sir Alwin opened his mouth to speak, but not before Sir Borlund cut in. “Perjury,” he said with a bash of his hand on the table. “A betrayal of the court! Foul and fouler crime, and with your fandom at the head.” Sir Borlund pointed a finger wildly at the two wardens, and looked back to Lord Halforth. “Did I not say as much? Didn’t I? You can see the lies hanging off their very lips!”

Lord Halforth did not speak against Sir Borlund. That alone was a bad sign. “I have long grown tired of this charade,” the Lord Moderator said harshly. “I have never thought much of your fandom. Never have I held your practices in great esteem. And yet neither did I presume that you would show such a willful disregard for this court. I see that was my first mistake.” His lip had curled from a scowl to a snarl. “This has been a farce from the first word, and I am beginning to see who is behind it.”

“Yes!” spat out Sir Borlund. He brought another meaty fist down onto the table. “Dont’ think I haven’t been watching you. Skulking in the shadows. Lurking behind honeyed words, all while sharpening a dagger to sink into my back. You did the same to Sir Harald and his lad, don’t think I haven’t seen you aiming to do the same to me.” Sir Borlund was on his feet now, and shouting. “Do you deny it, horse-lover? Deny it to my face, if you still care to! Is it true that you have met with the Changeling So—”

“Yes,” said the Warden.

The room was very still. Silently, the Warden of Honesty pulled out two chairs opposite the Lord Moderator. “May we sit?” he asked Lord Halforth.

Sir Alwin and Sir Borlund appeared frozen. Albright was still smiling, her eyes still. Lord Halforth stared at the Warden silently, then offered a nod. It was only after Honesty and Violet took their seats, with Proximo and Coin behind them, that he spoke again.

“You will explain this.” Lord Halforth’s eyes betrayed none of his thoughts. “All of it.”

The Warden did. All of it, every detail, every answer. Occasionally, Lady Violet would speak as well, to comment or clarify, but each would trust the other to speak without reservation, and each spoke only the truth. Weeks of findings and inquiries, marching by in terse, simple words: what they had heard, what they had seen, what they had found. The Changelings, Dabrius, and all else. As it was said, the Lord Moderator looked on, face even, silent and unmoving.

At the end, Lord Halforth looked between the two Wardens. “I suppose,” he began sharply, “that you believe this makes a difference. To reveal this now, after having concealed it.”

“Concealed,” Lady Violet admitted, “but not out of guilt. The danger to our friends—”

“Is irrelevant,” Halforth snapped. “Good reason, to betray the law? There is no such thing. And by law, this information should have been disclosed at once.”

“We disclose it now,” said the Warden of Honesty.

“And we hold nothing back.” The look in Violet’s eyes told Proximo that she had found an opportunity. “My lord, all that we told you is true, and it is the whole truth. Withins-Bei might have told you about Sir Coin trying to arrange meetings with a Changeling agent, yes. But if we had chosen, we could have admitted to that and remained silent on everything else. Instead, we chose to tell you everything, even where we could have done otherwise.” 

“I don’t understand,” Sir Alwin said. It was the first time he had gotten a word in since the Bronies entered the room, and he still seemed shocked. He shook his head. “You found this man—your man, your Dabrius—confined among these Changelings? And yet they claim to have no involvement in taking him?”

“That is so,” replied Violet. “They believe it the work of some third party. Saboteurs. I am inclined to believe them.”

“It is absurd,” said Lord Halforth scornfully.

“It’s perjury,” barked out Sir Borlund. “Don’t you see what you’ve done? You’ve given it up.” The sneer on his face had a feeling of triumph radiate off it. “It is as I said, as I always said.” 

“It is nothing of the sort,” Lady Violet said coldly. “You accused us again of killing Sir Harald and his squire in tow. You asked if we denied it, though I doubt you cared to hear an answer. Well, I do deny it. I deny it now, as I always have. We had naught to do with his death, not me, nor the wardens, nor Dabrius or any other. We did not kill him. But now, at the end, I am beginning to suspect who did.”

“Well, color me curious,” said Lord Albright. Her smile had not faded, not even once. “It seems to me that the evidence has all run in circles. What proof are you proposing to offer? And against whom?”

“For the proof? I would ask for a questioning. And as for whom?” Lady Violet turned her attention back to the Lord Moderator. “The Channic.”

“The anonymites?” The surprise in Sir Alwin’s voice was not, Proximo suspected, because he had never considered them suspects, but that Violet should mention them now. “Why?”

“They are the only ones left,” said Violet. “I cannot conceive of any others with the motive to accomplish all that has happened here. Give us the chance to interrogate them, and you will have your answer.”

“Oh really?” Lord Albright leaned in. “I admire the confidence. But how can you be sure you will get a truthful answer?” There was a look of excitement in her blue eyes. Proximo got the strange feeling that the Prefect already knew the answer.

Lady Violet seemed reluctant to answer, then sighed. “My honest friend,” she said. “He has a . . . talent for reading the truth of what men say.”

“Court can call witnesses,” the Warden of Honesty said. “We can question. Will not take long.”

“I have that power,” said Halforth. “But if you honestly believe I intend to allow you this, you are more mad than I ever considered. This investigation is over.”

Off to the side, Cellia looked aghast. “Your honor,” she said carefully, “if there is more evidence to consider, then it is improper to—”

“You will speak when spoken to, Miss Ravenry,” Lord Halforth said angrily, “and not before.” When she grew silent, he cast a glance to the Warden. “Is that it, then? Are you a reader of minds, horse-lover? It seems the least of what Lord Albright claims you are. Well, perhaps then you know if I am telling the truth when I name this a desperate gambit, put forward by people caught in a lie.”

“You believe it is true,” the Warden said plainly. “It is not.”

“Oh please,” spat Sir Borlund. “Spare us your denials, horse-lover.” That satisfied sneer had not left his face. “I knew of your guilt the moment I heard of this. I knew, and I was right. Do you see what they’ve done?” he shouted, to no one in particular. “Lying to the court, coercing witnesses, blackmailing a Moderator to do your bidding and rule how you wished—oh yes, don’t think I haven’t learned how you broke Alwin around your hand! Frauds, deceivers, deviants, murderers. I’ll wrap a rope about your neck for this, see if I cannot!”

“That is not true,” Sir Alwin said firmly. “At the least, we ought to hear out these Channic before we rush to—” 

“I will delay no longer,” Halforth replied. “Not true, you say? I see differently. It has already been proven to me.”

Shouting erupted from the Moderators. Sir Borlund was railing and pounding the table, veins bulging, while Sir Alwin rose to his feet and demanded to be heard. We’re losing this fight, Proximo thought. A panic was rising in him. The longer this conversation slipped from their control, the worse their situation had become. 

“I want a ruling!” shouted Borlund amid the din.

“You will have it,” Halforth replied, rising from his seat. He had taken his gavel from his belt, the black hammer poised in his hand, head resting against the table and ready to be brought down. 

Lord Albright eyed the instrument. “Take care not to be hasty, Dyren.”

“Be silent, woman. I will hear no more from you.” Halforth’s grip on the hammer tightened. “I have heard enough.”

Some of Proximo’s panic was clear in Violet. “My lord, I ask—!”

“You will ask for nothing, horse-lover.” Halforth pointed the gavel at her, his face like stone. “You deserve nothing. Save only for this. A motion is before us, sirs. Will judgment be rendered?”

Borlund said ‘yes’ nearly as fast as Sir Alwin said ‘no.’ That left only one.

Lord Halforth was silent. Momentarily, there was a flash of something on his face, something less than certainty. It ended when he clenched his gloved hand. “My course is clear. Miss Ravenry, read them the litany and take them away.”

Proximo wobbled on his feet. That’s it, he thought. It’s done. He saw Violet and the Warden of Honesty ready themselves to speak. They did not get the chance.

Cellia Ravenry had seemed as stunned as Proximo, for a moment. Then, quietly, she spoke. “Your honor,” she said, “I cannot, in good conscience, obey this order.”

“What?” Halforth snapped his gaze to her. “What?” 

“It is true that,” Cellia began. She swallowed, then pressed on. “It is true that these actions are suspect at once, your honor. But considering the extenuating circumstances doctrine outlined in the Code, there is reason to—”

“Don’t you prattle the law at me,” Lord Halforth said, furious. “I am the one that wrote it.”

“Then you know this isn’t right!” Even she seemed surprised at her words.

Borlund’s face had gone even more scarlet than before. “You will obey your master, Peacekeeper, or so help me I—”

“I am obeying him, sir,” Cellia replied. “Obeying what he taught, the lessons I learned.” The words seemed to tumble out of her as she spoke. “Your honor, I have been in your service for years. For all that time, you taught me to stand for law, honor, temperance, and truth. For justice. How does this thing you’re doing square with that? How does it square with any of it? You are about to condemn them without appraising all the facts!”

Halforth’s mouth twisted in fury. “You will hold your tongue, Cellia, or I will have it carved out of you, what—”

“The Lord Halforth I know would never talk like that. Not to his servants. Not to me. Your honor,” she said, desperate, “can’t you see there’s something wrong? This isn’t you. You aren’t acting like yourself.” 

Even in a man so often stoic as Lord Halforth, Proximo could see that those words triggered something in Lord Moderator’s mind. There was something in his eyes—some flash of color, a flicker of doubt that Proximo could not imagine. For the first time, Dyren Halforth was backing away, confusion clear on his face. 

“I . . . I—” Halforth did not seem to have the words to reply. Proximo would not have believed it could happen, but Halforth’s sternness was vanishing. Something else remained—something vulnerable and afraid.

It died in a moment, and the fury returned with a glint of wan color in Halforth’s eyes. “I don’t believe it. Betrayal. I have betrayers and traitors on all sides, and now you as well? There is no one left to trust,” he said, full of hollow anger. This was not Lord Halforth anymore—the man that spoke was erratic, and beyond furious. “I will not countenance it. I will not allow it! You of all people, Cellia, ought to know the cost of this apostasy. I will see it punished with the full force of law, and I will correct it as—”

“As you did for your son?” the Warden of Honesty asked.

The room froze. There was shock on every face. Lady Violet’s mouth hung agape, and Cellia was beyond stunned. Withins-Bei looked as though he desperately wished to be somewhere else. Even Lord Albright’s smile had faded away in an instant. No one spoke. 

“How dare you,” Sir Borlund hissed. “To speak such words to a—”

“Get out,” Lord Halforth said to him.

Borlund turned about in surprise. “What?”

“Leave this room. All of you.” Whatever had come over Lord Halforth before, it seemed to wash away from him now, buried beneath cold, calm rage. “Miss Ravenry and the horse-lovers will remain.”

Sir Borlund might have argued, but a look from Lord Halforth dissuaded him thoroughly. All of them left, filing out in a line. The Bronies and Cellia were left with the Lord Moderator. Before Proximo could dare to wonder what in the Web his honest friend was doing, the silence was broken.

“You asked a question of me,” Lord Halforth said, a dangerous tone in his voice.

“This one asked,” Honesty said plainly, “about your son.” 

“About my son. About what he did? About my actions? Oh yes, I am certain you would wish to know, and accuse me with what you would learn.” He gritted his teeth. “You have no right to sling such a thing at me, none. You have not the slightest notion of what you say. My son?” He jerked his head away, but Proximo could see his face twisted into a mask of fury. “I suppose you heard some fool rumor that I had him hanged. I did not, though it was all that he deserved. Did those rumors tell you what he did? About the trade he had been dealing in? About who he had been working alongside? About the blood . . . blood on the floor! The graves that had to be filled! Men were dead, and he had used my name to try and sweep it all away. You know nothing.” 

Halforth’s hand clenched into a fist so hard that Proximo thought he’d start bleeding through his gloves. “It was irrefutable, undeniable even before he confessed. When he was there, in the court before me, I had the choice to step aside, or to step up and find him innocent despite it all. My own blood, despite it all. But I refused. It would not be right, to let a man go and see him walk away free because of his name, when any common man would see justice. Justice. I should have hanged him, but instead he rots in a cell by my verdict, and there he shall remain.”

The Lord Moderator looking over at them, hand quavering. “To be one with the law, and the Code of the World, it means sacrifice. Of the self, and all the self begets. It was my greatest test, but I passed it, God help me. Perhaps there was a time I would have wept, but I did not. Could I do otherwise, and not betray what was right? Never. Not for anyone, not even for him. My son . . .”

Lord Halforth seemed to sway, grasping at the table for balance. There was panic from Cellia and Lady Violet both, but Halforth raised a hand to stop them. 

“This changes nothing. You said this to distract me, to make me doubt, to turn me aside. I cannot be turned. I have gone too far to turn back now, and—” 

Cellia stepped forward, and took his arm. “Your honor,” she said quietly, “please.” There was pleading in her eyes, and tears as well. And behind both, fear.

Lord Halforth looked at her hand, then to her face. He saw her eyes, and that fear, and in an instant his expression changed. It might have been unrecognizable in anyone else, but it was as though something was melting away from him, melting off and lightening his features. For a moment, he was silent, his stare not cold but rather full of an uncertainty that did not suit him. As though under a spell, he gently stepped away, and stood alone, facing away from all others.

There was another slow silence. Cellia took a step. “Your honor?”

Halforth’s head was bowed, his hat covering his face. “I have acted shamefully.”

Lady Violet spoke. “No more than us.”

Halforth did not turn. “By the Code of the World,” he said solemnly, “all crimes deserve punishment. But where a crime committed by a Moderator, that assailant is punished by twice the sentence of a common man. No one is held to higher standard under the law than those who make the law. We ought to know better.” He looked down at his hand. “Miss Ravenry, you spoke correctly. I am not acting like myself. The nights pass, and I cannot sleep. I find myself in dreams, ones I cannot describe here. And I see them still, even now with my waking eyes. 

“There is . . . there is something very wrong here. Wrong with me, and only now can I truly see it, as though some mist over me was lifted. I told myself it was just in my head, and God help me I think it is true.” He gave a bitter, shaky laugh. Removing the glove from his right hand, Halforth stared down at the wedding band he wore. “It has been some time, since I was last afraid.”

That admission hung heavy in the air. It was Lady Violet who spoke again. “My lord,” she began, “I believe I know of what you speak. There is something happening in this city that I do not pretend to fully understand. But it is dark and dangerous, whatever it is, and I cannot doubt that it has a terrible intent. And I believe,” Lady Violet said gravely, “that it is somehow linked with the fate of Sir Harald and his squire. Tied with everything that we have been searching for here. The Channic might be at the center of this. They practically said as much to us.”

“Yes,” Lord Halforth said. He still seemed shaken. “I know what they say. My lady, I am not a superstitious man. But I have seen the Chan. I believe I know this thing to which they refer.”

“The Beast in the Bay,” the Warden of Honesty murmured.

“Indeed. Foolishness and folklore, some would claim. And yet I have seen things in my days and dreams. When rational explanations fail us, we must turn to the answers that seem impossible. You are not the only ones to have considered this, my lord and lady.”

The words clearly worried everyone in the room. “What do you propose, my lord?” Lady Violet ventured.

“Find the Channic. I will send orders, have them brought to us, and put them to the question. But beyond that?” The troubled look in Halforth’s face did not fade. “My lady, I cannot say at the moment. I . . . need to clear my head. It is not clear to me if my judgment can still be trusted.”

The mood in the barracks when Coin and the others awoke those Honest Friends still abed had not been good. It had scarcely improved after he told them all what had happened.

“The lady commanded us to ready ourselves,” Coin concluded. Around him were the various Honest Friends of the night shift, alert and alarmed, and those of the day shift, a few still rubbing the sleep from their eyes. All were listening carefully, with varying degrees of shock, determination, and fear present on their faces.

“To arms?” Red Autumn grunted. He was already armed, as it happened. If someone told Coin that Red slept in his armor, the way the Warden of Honesty was said to, he would not have doubted it.

“It would appear so,” said Coin. He couldn’t believe the words coming from his lips, but there they were. 

“Oh God,” said Daria Faust, eyes wide. The dozens of other Honest Friends around them seemed to agree. Murmurs and whispers ran through the assembled ranks.

Jon Faust stepped forward, and put up a quieting hand. “Enough. We have orders, now let’s set about following them. I want a drafted team of Friends that will be able to march down to the city and secure the Changeling Society. If Halforth rules in our favor, we will need to send a party to get the Changelings in hand alongside the Mods.”

“And what if Halforth doesn’t rule in our favor?” Dustario said sourly. His lip curled across the scarred side of his face in displeasure. Clearly, he already knew which was more likely.

Jon Faust swallowed. “Well,” he said, “then we’ll have quite a night on our hands.”

“So this is it.” Dalwin said solemnly. “For good or ill, the hour of doom. A grim time.”

Strongshield glowered. “I can’t believe that all our prospects lie in the hands of a stubborn old man.” She fastened the straps on her armor tightly, each tug with more anger behind it than necessary. “They cannot hope to overcome the Warden’s will.”

Jon, an Honest Eye as well, nodded. “Not so long as we carry it out. Our first priority is to secure our other less martial friends. Squads to each room in the Palace taken by Friends of other branches. Retrieve them and the guards they have posted outside their rooms, and then bring them all back here.”

Applewood raised a hand, while he was retrieving weapons from another Honest Friend with the other. “Not meanin’ t’question, but will this be the safest safekeep for ‘em? If Halforths feeling’ unkindly, Mods are sure to raid our home sweet home down ‘ere.”

“You are not wrong,” Jon said, “but frankly we have no other choices. This is the place in the Palace we can best secure, and we can hardly take to the streets as an alternative.”

Jorama piped up. “Weapons for the close-quarters, then. It shall be like the mines of my homeland, once more.” She pulled up the golden bandana around her neck, covering her mouth.

“Too right,” said Applewood. “Where’s Selda? We could use that axe ‘o hers. Actually, where’s Kriseroff? Assumin’ he fits in the hallways.”

“Selda is down in the city with Apple Orange, keeping watch on that opera house,” said Jon Faust. “The anonymites were seen around there, so we had need of eyes on it. As for Kris, I should hope that he is—”

“Uurrrgh,” came a sleepy groan from the corner of the room.

“—Awake,” Jon finished. “Yes, there he is.”

“I am woken,” Kris said hoarsely. There was still an unsteadiness in his step as he clambered forward. It had taken three people to rouse him, and even then he was threatening to drift back to sleep the whole time. “If Kriseroff’s waking is because of enemies, you will be telling me of them. I will kill them, and then sleep again.”

“If the Mods might threaten us,” Red Autumn interrupted, “we should not be waiting meekly down here. We should seize the Palace now, while there’s a chance. The Warden’s strength goes with us.” Next to him, silent Crispin Peck began nodding enthusiastically.

There were some murmurs of agreement from others, many of whom wore the Honest Eye upon their breasts. Jon spoke up to silence them. “We don’t have close to the men to take the Palace,” he said. “Not against the Watch and the Mods as well. And it would be madness to make the first strike before we even know if we’re fighting.”

“Lady Violet and the Warden may yet resolve all of this,” Coin spoke up. “And even if they cannot, it may be that they do not wish us to fight.” He knew that if it came to it, the Wardens would much rather give up themselves and have the other Bronies go free. That those same Bronies would find such a sacrifice unthinkable would no doubt also occur to them. Six save us, I hope it doesn’t come to that.

Jon nodded. “I know what’s at stake, but we holdfast and follow the command. I will have no one here making the first blow, understood?” When it was clear that it was, Jon said, “Very well. Two minutes for the first groups to suit up and group up, and then we head for the rooms. Everyone else, get ready as fast as you can and start securing this place. Six and One.”

“Six and One,” everyone intoned, and set to their work. They moved quickly: the night shift were already prepared for a fight, and began lining up, while all those who had been asleep strapped on armor and took hold of arms.

Standing near the door, Coin could not banish that sense of dread that had been with him all night. ‘The hour of doom,’ Dalwin had named it. Whatever happens, this is where it will be decided. That door to the rest of the Palace suddenly seemed very unfriendly.

He felt Jon Faust clap a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t free, friend. The Warden has emerged from far more dire straits than this. The lady too. I’ve little doubt they’ll succeed.”

“I hope so.” Coin did not wish to seem hopeless. It was in part, after all, his own advice that had led to the Wardens going to Halforth themselves. He believed they could do it, somehow pull everything back from the edge of madness. But in the dark of the night, it was difficult to see when dawn would come.

Jon’s hand squeezed Coin’s shoulder reassuringly. “Hope, and set forth, my friend. We’ve a plan, and the means to do it, and that’s better than most. I would say—”

They were interrupted by the door opening. An Honest Friend who had been guarding it from the outside stepped in, a tense look on his face. 

“What is it, man?” Jon asked.

“Sir,” the guard said quietly, “I think there is someone out there. In the halls.”

Jon and Coin exchanged a worried look. Remaining quiet, Jon signalled the assembled friends with his hands, urging them to stand ready. Gingerly, he and Coin stepped outside the room.

It was late enough at night, and the barracks were located low enough in the earth, that the halls were pitch black. They all led to other wings of the basement or upstairs to the larger Palace, but it was hard to tell that in the dark. Shadows seemed to pool down those halls, extending far like the tunnels of a cave.

Jon peered down those halls, trying for a glimpse at whatever had been seen. He looked down them, silently.

“I . . . I thought I saw someone,” the guard explained. He tugged at the gold-and-orange uniform he wore. “I could have sworn . . .”

Coin took a look as well. Whilst Jon watched the left, Coin looked right. It was utterly still. He saw nothing move in the dark, and heard no sound. Nothing.

He heard Jon let out a breath behind him. “Let’s get moving. We’ve got ground to cover, seeing that the Martes insisted on spreading out our Friends across the Palace, we ought to—” 

Then, faintly, there was a noise from the shadows

Jon halted suddenly, and then drew a sword from his belt. “Who goes there?” he barked. “Show yourself, or—”

Coin spun around just in time to see a knife fly out from the dark and take the guardsman next to them in the neck. Gasping, Coin dove to the side. 

“To arms!” he heard Jon cry, as the next knife flew.

“I can feel it in my bones. On the surface of my mind.” Lord Halforth rubbed at his head. “Even in the darkest days of the Channic campaigns, it was never quite like this. How did I not recognize it sooner? There is a subtlety to it that is difficult to explain. Hard to see, before another points you to it.”

Now that Halforth spoke to them as something other than an executioner, Proximo felt some of the tension depart the room. It swelled back when they began discussing the ‘presence,’ as they had so named it. He still felt his skin crawl when he thought back to the episode he’d experienced some mere hours ago. Somehow, hearing a man like Halforth speak of it in deadly seriousness made it all the more unnerving. 

Lady Violet looked as though she were trying to pick apart every word and thought, and put them back together again. If that were the case, Proximo doubted that arranging those pieces made them any easier to understand. “What of the red rinse?” she asked at last, with an exacting look at Lord Halforth.

“With all frankness, my lady,” replied Halforth, “this uncomfortable realization of mine has not made me less inclined to pull this island apart and affix those responsible to a gibbet.” There was a certain wryness to his tone, though it did not reach his face. “Your concern I understand. Prior to tonight, it would have been warranted. But I have too few Moderators in this city to solve a problem of this magnitude, and too few resources. The reinforcements from Central will be black-clad, with block boxes in hand. Nothing less will do.”

“In the meantime,” he continued, “there is the matter of the Changelings and the Channic. I will have words with both, before this is done. Prior to that, I would ask for the room. Yours is not the only counsel to which I owe much. There are some words that I owe my Peacekeeper.

Cellia’s look was a mix of surprise and concern. To the request, Violet bowed her head. “Of course, my lord. Take whatever time is needed. We shall all eagerly await your calling. Until then, I—”

“Hold,” said the Warden of Honesty.

“My honest friend?” Violet asked. Her face sank, when he did not answer at once. “My honest friend, what is it?”

The Warden took a step away from the wall, keeping his back to her and everyone else. His eye was fixed squarely on the door. “Someone outside. More than one.”

That drew Proximo’s attention. He stared at the entranceway, at the shut door. Proximo had not heard anything . . . but then, he was not the Warden of Honesty.

“Mister Cartwright and Miss Cawtler?” Halforth suggested.

“No,” the Warden said, “more.”

Proximo was on his feet before he even knew it. Cellia had stepped in front of Lord Halforth, just as Honesty stood between Violet and the door. It was Violet who next spoke. “My lord,” she said evenly, “we ought to—”

It was at that moment that the door flung open, and for a moment Proximo went blind. He had heard something crack and hiss and bang in front of him, and then suddenly all his vision had gone to blurry outlines, and his hearing but to noise. Just barely, he could see motion and movement from show indistinct forms, then the shape of a giant pass in front of his vision. It was only a half-second later, amid the noise and fear, that he saw the masks the figures wore, and the steel in their hands.

No one knows precisely when the Warden of Laughter joined the Brony Fandom—not even the Warden of Laughter himself, to hear him say it. In the author’s interviews with Jestin Jen, the Warden claimed that there was no moment of conversion, nor any sudden choice to join with the other followers of the Six. His presence among them, and his cognizance of being a Brony, simply ‘was.’ This author would grow increasingly used to answers of this character whilst writing of Lord Jen’s story.

Regardless, it is known that Jestin Jen was indeed in the Chan during the advent of the fandom, but only briefly. Such were the ways of a Bard Errant, a Troper of Taveeda, a member of that strange order of raconteurs and players that wind their way about the Web, searching out new songs and stories to add to their great catalogues. A Bard of Lord Jen’s character would spend their lives in near constant motion, travelling wayward as the muse takes them, seeking out the permutations of the Monomyth in which they believed. Of the Wardens of the fandom, only Lady Wright could claim to be nearly as well travelled as Lord Jen, and even so she doubted that he had told her half of the things he had really seen.

So what was Lord Jen expecting, when he stepped off that teetering merchant hull and onto the salt-mired shores of the Chan? Tropers seek out stories, after all. If it was a drama he wanted, the Chan certainly delivered.

By this point, the Brony fandom had truly become a fandom, and the Chan a firestorm. The early weeks of various cultic bands of Bronies were long gone, and a new order had arisen, one of armies and exiles, leaders and followers. Madelin Wright’s flight to Comchan was completed, and her army had united with that of the Warden of Honesty—the man who had carved a fragile realm with blood and sword. Feylen Mars, Lillian Semmer, and the newly-named Violet Brushshape were among the nonmilitant members of the fandom, many of whom were evacuating to Sixchan-in-the-Sea, far from Mods and Channic alike. All of them knew one another, either from meeting in person or from letters exchanged at feverous pace. For at this time, their deeds were such that most everyone in the conflict knew the names of all our present Wardens. 

All, save for one. For at this time, Jestin Jen was a stranger to everyone. This would not last long.