‘Who? Did the damned thing give a name?’ bellowed Rangogh. A spray of spit and wine burst from his lips.

‘Perhaps it might be best if we retire for the evening, sire, and leave all of this nasty business until morning’ Werner interjected. ‘The monster will keep until then, I am sure. I think we could all use a nice, sobering rest.’

‘Damn it, Werner!’ Rangogh spat. ‘This is no time for your coddling! I am quite capable of settling a dispute in my own home!’

Werner pursed his lips. ‘Of course, my lord,’ he said, disdainfully. He looked to Eryn and found her eyes already on him. It was a knowing look. One that might’ve seemed empathetic, if it wasn’t to him so patronising. He broke free and diverted his attention to the cup of water he was cradling between his fingertips.

The dining hall had been rearranged. Now, instead of a short spruce table in the centre, they sat about a fading fire in the very same ivory armchairs. Eryn had just finished enlightening the pair as to her conversation with the changeling, to a raucous chorus of gulping and burping from the now hopelessly drunk Rangogh.

‘It didn’t give a name,’ Eryn said. Her voice was a calm wind in a hurricane. ‘But I don’t suppose it was given one, so we won’t learn much more from another interrogation.’

‘And it said…’Rangogh started, but was overcome by a haze of room-spin.

‘It definitely mentioned having an agent in the house?’ asked Werner.

‘It said something to that effect, yes.’

‘Then we ought to round up the staff! Perhaps we can get a confession.’

‘That could take- hic- a month!’ said the viscount, through hiccups. ‘No! We must find Dalia… All our efforts must go into- hic- into it.’

‘And what of these “armed men”, as it were?’ Werner said. ‘Have you any idea where such a party might be hiding? If they are indeed “watching” this creature, then surely they must be close-by?’

‘It would seem so,’ said Eryn with a deep frown. ‘I didn’t see a soul on my way in or out… They must be concealed well. Somewhere in the grounds, perhaps.’

‘Likely!’ said Werner. ‘But then, how can we make any plans with such a dreadful cloud hanging over us? Should we act – the fiends may launch an ambush!’

‘I expect they will. But we can’t afford not to act…’ said Eryn. ‘We should first decide on our next steps, and forget about the mercenaries. I’ll deal with them if I have to.’

Rangogh took another gulp of wine and groaned. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Then what steps do you recommend?’

‘Perhaps our magician has a few tricks up her sleeve,’ said Werner through a forced smile. ‘What magic might assist us best, do you suppose, Lady Eryn?’

‘Magic isn’t a cure for all ills, steward,’ she replied, venomously.

‘You don’t cast a lot of spells for a witch. Why is that?’ Werner said, not backing down.

‘I find the better magicians out there cast far fewer than you might think. In fact, the greatest who ever lived is famous for casting only one.’

‘Galahir, the iridescent!’ he said. ‘I am familiar with his tale. I am also familiar with your alma mater, the Tower of Glass – which – correct me if I am wrong – was founded by the very same Galahir, and produces a whole host of very capable sorcerers. All of whom cast a great many spells.’

‘The Tower is a shadow of what it once was. I wouldn’t expect a layman to understand the complexities of magician schooling. Nor would I expect him to grasp a basic understanding of how it is teachers who decide upon the curriculum for a school, not its long-dead founders.’

Werner waved a dismissive hand. ‘You fight with a sword too, no? Not a wand – or a staff. Many magicians prefer the latter two, you know?’

‘And I’ve lived a whole lot longer than any that did – and plan on living a lot longer than those who do today. Magic is temperamental. They don’t call it wild for no reason. If it is my destiny to die then magic will leave my leash like a wolf devouring its would-be tamer. It will leave me exposed – like it does so many other poor bastards. I won’t leave my fate in its hands… I rely on my sword. And the moment of my death will be decided by me – and me alone.’

Werner sat back and drummed the edge of his cup with a few fingers. It was clear by his contemptuous expression that he was chasing the urge to say something more, but for whatever reason, held his tongue. Though, his willpower could not withstand the chilling smirk that the witch now afforded him.

‘The better you become with a blade, the less the wild – and thereby magic – favours your hand. Am I wrong?’

‘You aren’t,’ Eryn said. She did her best to mask the bitterness in her answer, but failed.

‘Tricky, that particular balance, don’t you think?’ he said, smiling. ‘How skilled does one permit themselves to become in any field if they desire ultimately to live long and to become renowned for their aptitude in sorcery?’

‘Renown is overrated,’ the witch growled.

‘Clearly,’ said Werner through a sneer.

Rangogh had heard enough. ‘Silence!’ he barked, thrusting his cup out in front of him like a hammer. The resulting splash skipped Eryn’s legs but somehow managed to find Werner’s boots – to his chagrin, and her amusement. ‘I have pondered the question for many hours, and I feel the best course is a simple one. I order you to kill the beast, Eryn.’

The smile was ripped from Eryn’s face. ‘That would be unwise, my lord,’ she said.

‘To let it live would be unwise. It is clearly scheming! With all manner of allies about my house!’ the viscount bellowed. ‘It must die. Perhaps that will serve as a- hic- a warning to those who mean us harm!’

‘To do so would only anger our foes, my lord,’ said Werner; he too seemed to find the viscount’s plan incoherent at best. ‘If Dalia is still alive, they will surely seek vengeance. Who can say what might befall the girl.’

‘They would not dare!’ boomed Rangogh. ‘I would have their innards fed to the hounds if such a thing was even contemplated!’ He suddenly leapt up from his seat. Raising his voice another few decibels he called out: ‘Let it be known! All who are watching this house – that a single mark upon her will prove fatal to- hic- to those responsible!’

‘Will you sit down and shut-up,’ growled Eryn, tugging at the hem of his expensive jerkin. Rangogh tumbled back into his chair and stared at her, utterly flabbergasted. ‘…My lord,’ the witch added with a slight movement that was more like a nod than a bow.

‘Perhaps,’ said Werner, ignoring the pair of them. ‘We could simply cast the thing out. You could ensure it leaves the house and does not return, Eryn. Maybe it will die of the cold.’

‘What good would that do?’ asked Rangogh. ‘We need to send some kind of message… not hide the blasted thing’s corpse!’

‘The changeling is under the protection of Wild Magic,’ the witch cut in. ‘To cast it out – knowing full well that it would succumb to the elements – or to kill it out of revenge – would violate the fifth law.’

‘Then what do you suggest we do?’ snapped Rangogh. ‘I have yet to hear a solution from you, witch!’

Eryn narrowed her eyes. It had never bothered her to be addressed as such before. The word “witch” was in most cases a sign of respect. It tended to refer to those higher sorceresses among the rabble. The sort that no longer whimpered at the prospect of a duel, or consulted dusty tomes for advice in dealing with common things like spriggans and hobs. Though in certain circles – circles in which men with blood as rich and salty as seawater and wine congratulated each other over an excellent hunt, or the sacking of some sacred temple. In those circles it was considered impolite – and used for that very reason.

‘There is a little grey area,’ said Eryn, reclining, and resigning herself to give as little aid as she felt was fair. ‘You might be able to negotiate the return of your daughter by threatening harm to the changeling – though it’ll likely call your bluff since you can’t actually kill it. Or you could try appeasing it…’ She made a face that seemed to suggest she found even the notion ridiculous. ‘Alternatively, you could always inspire it to detest your hospitality to the point of vacating your granddaughter’s cot of its own volition – though that might take a while… and, honestly, I fail to see how that would return the child to you.’

‘This is the best you have? Carrot and stick?’ asked Rangogh with a weary groan.

‘Better to take my advice than risk upsetting forces beyond your understanding. Breaking Wild Law is not something to be done lightly. Only ruin can come of it.’

‘There will be no ruin,’ said Rangogh; his head rising suddenly. ‘I have known men who have flaunted their disregard for every last law, and they were no worse for it! I’ll cut that fucking thing’s head off if they’ve harmed my Dalia – I swear it!’

‘You mean your former wizard,’ said Eryn. ‘I am afraid you have been rather cruelly misled by his example, my lord. Hell, the “former” part of his title should suggest quite plainly that he was certainly “worse for it.”‘

‘What do you know of Huns?’ the steward cut in; his eyebrow raised to a point.

‘I know that one can’t live in flagrant disregard of the Law without consequences.’

‘An imbalance of vital humours brought the late wizard to his grave, lady Eryn – nothing more. It was certainly not some mystical-’

‘Skin welted and red-raw? A stream of blood from his mouth?’ the witch interrupted. ‘A litre or two, I’d say.’

Werner blinked; startled by her perfect recount. ‘I’ve seen the scene many times. It’s always the same. A convergence of Wild Magic slew Huns Fen Uard.’

‘A convergence!’ said Werner, blinking. ‘Wild Magic! What a load of-’

Rangogh struck the table angrily, and pushed himself to his feet. ‘Will you two stop bickering!’ he boomed. ‘There is little time for this. My granddaughter is out there – somewhere. I must have her back, Eryn. Please… there must be another way? Isn’t there some spell you can perform? Couldn’t you conjure a- a-’

‘She has said she does not favour spellcasting, my lord,’ said Werner. ‘Perhaps I ought to send for another magician. One more like master Huns.’

‘Blast-it, Werner, this is no time for your petty point-scoring,’ yelled the viscount. ‘Is there anything at all that we might try, Eryn?’

Eryn pondered the question. There was still a great deal of rage in her. Rage at being insulted and laughed at. Rage at being questioned and her faults having been prodded and picked at. And yet, still she pondered it – as though something more held her to aid the drunken viscount.

‘There is maybe one other way,’ she said after a short while. She waited for a response but none came. Both men simply stared with blank and hopeful faces. ‘Throw it in the fire.’

‘Excuse me?’ sputtered Rangogh. ‘Was it not you who just said that we weren’t to murder the foul monster? That- That it would bring ruin upon us?’

‘I did,’ she said. ‘Fire won’t kill the changeling. Fairies are afraid of fire because they can burn for an awfully long time without dying, if set alight. If we toss the changeling into the fire, it’ll surely bolt out of fear.’

‘For home?’

‘For the nearest place it believes is safe.’ Eryn shrugged. ‘We’ll have to hang a pair of scissors over the cot – crossed knives might do, if you have none – otherwise that’ll be where it’ll flee to… but once that’s off limits, who knows…’

‘The home of its accomplice, perhaps?’ said Rangogh, stroking his chin. ‘I see… You mean to- hic- follow it. Can such a thing be done? And why didn’t you- hic- mention this when I first asked?’

‘I thought perhaps I’d give you a chance to grant us a showing of your tremendous knowledge of wild things,’ she said. Her eyes snapped to Werner who stared back with a murderous expression. ‘I won’t be able to follow on foot – I’ll need to be outside when it’s done so that I can chase on horseback. Fairies are fast bastards. Which of course means that you’ll have to be the one to drop it in the fire, my lord.’

‘Nasty work, but I suppose someone must. May as well be me…’ Rangogh said, gazing into the dregs of his drink.

Eryn got to her feet. ‘Then we are agreed. I’ll saddle-up…’ she announced.

‘Er- If this fails…’ said Rangogh, suddenly. ‘If the changeling bolts too quickly for you to follow – or perishes in the flames rather than run… Is there any hope of finding my granddaughter?’

Eryn shook her head. There was a graveness to her gaze that let the viscount look a little deeper, and let sing the sorrows of a long, painful past. ‘Well then,’ Rangogh said with a quivering chin. ‘Godspeed, Eryn of Koss.’