My dearest Claude, you're twelve now, almost a man. You must be growing so big and strong, into a handsome young lad. I wish I could see you. Please be good to Lylon and Gwenore.
Enclosed with this letter is another music box. Your father left it as a gift for you. I've kept the key, in hopes that when we meet again, we can listen to its song together. Until then, be good to Lylon and Gwenore.
Mother.
I wish the letters weren't so short, the words so fleeting. Claude held up the music box and twisted it around in his hand. It captured the rays of the rising sun and splashed gold against his mother's writing. The glass window on top was fashioned into a crescent moon by whatever blessed hands had crafted the piece. Your father left it as a gift for you. That was the first and last time she mentioned his father at all. He'd pondered if they were together. If so, why didn't he send letters too? No, he must have run off. Or died to the scourge.
This music box may be the last connection he had to both his parents. Will its song be as beautiful as the stargazer's requiem? Would he ever hear it?
The thought turned his stomach to stone. He could search his whole life and find nothing. Or perhaps he'd give up at some point, content himself with never knowing the woman who'd given him life.
No, if nothing awaited him at the end of this journey, he would continue to search, to the ends of this world and beyond. If they didn't reunite here, then they surely would in eternity.
Claude leaned back against the bench in the middle of Quintus' stupid garden. He'd risen early to visit the market, to buy sturdier shoes for the long walk. He'd also picked up a few balls of yarn and a bigger crochet hook, rather than stockpiling a load of textiles he wouldn't be able to carry. Tempting as they were.
The horse he'd borrowed from the castle stables was tethered to a post near an uninspired pile of rocks with no real form. Ducks swarmed around his feet and pecked at the scraps of pastry he brushed from his clothes.
Lylon wouldn't have liked this place either. He believed in gardening for sustenance, not flare. The flowers he grew ended their lives dried and squeezed for oils or thrown into hot water for tea, not rotting along a path. This place may have been more interesting if it had remained a pile of burning rubble.
Or maybe he was just bitter.
Claude retrieved his horse and rode back towards the castle. They wouldn't leave for the coast until midmorning, but Quintus had given him grief twice for being "late." He guided the horse up the sloping terrain, past people sweeping their doorsteps, buildings higher than the cathedral in Hedalda, and hawk crests flying high.
How lucky these people were, spared from all the ugliness outside these borders. Their children dreamed of running through rolling green fields, not being snatched out of their beds by living nightmares, or watching their loved one's being cut down in front of them or the sick, metallic scent of blood.
They didn't have to worry about whether they'd wake up to their homes intact or burning down around them. They didn't know the hellish screeches of the netherborne. They never might. And he envied them for it.
A stable hand came for the horse as soon as Claude rode into the courtyard. The warmth from the paving stones rose into his boots and he weaved through the guards and attendants milling around. Some carried crates, others buckets of water, some bales of hay.
Amadeus stood near a wagon, barking orders at the attendants tethering two bison to the front. The vestibule doors hung open and Claude spotted his trunk amongst the wooden crates.
"What's all this?" he asked.
"Mostly medicine. Hey, easy with that one." Amadeus took a crate from a guard and loaded it into the wagon as though it was made of glass. "All right, that should do it. Claude, you can put your stuff back here if you want." He rounded the wagon and disappeared in front of the two bison being tethered to it.
As Claude stuffed his trunk amongst the crates, something thumped him on the back of his head.
"Finally on time," Quintus said. He held out the sheathed sword he'd used to assault Claude's head. "This is for you, sweetheart, a parting gift from the King. Don't die out there."
Claude turned it over in his hands. The hair-thin engravings on the up-swept guard gave it the appearance of a pair of feathers, and a small hawk was painted on the pommel. He unsheathed the blade and gave it a few test swings. Simple, double-edged, a little more heft than he was used to, but he'd manage. "Give the King my thanks."
"Will do. Amadeus, Undine has the supply list. She'll be down shortly."
"Noted," he called from the front of the wagon.
"Be careful out there. The netherborne are restless," Quintus warned. "Give the team in Viperstone my regards."
***
Claude wasn't averse to walking. He'd done much of it after leaving home, and much more after joining the priesthood. But he was averse to silence. They passed through a few towns under Jaredeth's rule on their journey north. But beyond the border, laid nothingness. Overgrown fields, abandoned shacks and echoes of civilization clung to the countryside.
He'd thought things in Hedalda were dire. At least that place still had some life. Out there it looked like the ruins of settlers who traversed these lands on the eves of civilization. Not towns and villages that had been standing a handful of years ago.
It was late in the afternoon when their group arrived at the ruins of a cliff side city. The bumps and squeaks of the wagon ricocheted off the pillars of stone. Clouds of dust swirled around Claude's boots with every step he took, and the occasional crunch reached his ears when he stepped on the dry weeds peeking through the cracked pavement. The wind ran unimpeded through the abandoned structures, shaking loose shutters and stirring up tiny eddies.
"Evonshire," Amadeus said. "I heard this place used to be amazing. Great performance culture, lots of shows and plays and acts every night. A hotspot for the weary traveller."
"Not so much anymore." Undine kicked the remnants of a wooden barrel out of her path. "It seems even the netherborne have moved on from this place. No more food."
They came to the cliff side, where a group of five stone dwellings were arranged in a semicircle. They were dome shaped with a single window and a door so small an adult would have to crawl to get in. Wind chimes dangled from wooden poles, standing beside each one like a sentinel.
Claude crossed to the circular pit dug into the ground in front of the centre dwelling. Char clung to its edges and coal sat on the bottom. "What is this place?"
"A waypoint," Amadeus said. "It is a safe place for travellers to rest." He flourished a hand towards the little houses. "Take your pick."
Undine guided the bison off to the side of the road. "Be quick about it. We need to set up before we lose daylight."
Claude chose the closest one. A thatch rug took up most of the floor space, and no grit or dust crunched under his feet. Two trunks sat at the back, and several shelves lined the walls. He set his bag by the door and popped the trunks. Blankets filled the first, smelling of something floral, yet earthy. The second held clothes for both children and adults.
He plucked a jar of dried citrus slices from a shelf and gave them a sniff. Hints of cinnamon and nutmeg wafted from the inside. If only he'd known of these places when he'd been travelling.
"There are tools in here," Undine called. "And some weapons. This one has a hole in the roof. I'll see if I can patch it up."
"There's a well over here." Amadeus pulled a tarp from the stone structure. "I'll water the bison. Priest, gather us some firewood."
"Yes, your Majesty," Claude said, deadpan. He wandered away from their camp, into the patchy woods fringing the edge of the town. There he found more ruins, bits and pieces of buildings clinging to relevance, not wanting to be forgotten like the humans that once dwelled in them.
He plucked a piece of pocked, rotting wood from beside a crumbling wall. Did all the people run away from here? Or did the netherborne kill them? He added a log and a handful of twigs to his pile. After several trips, the pile of wood and tinder reached his waist.
Orange light cut through the ruins and stretched their scraggly shadows over their camp. Undine swept out the fire pit while Amadeus fiddled with one of the wind chimes, and the bison drank from a trough.
"Two rules of the waypoint, priest. Don't take more than you need and leave it better than you met it." Amadeus dusted his hands off. "However you choose to do that is on you."
"I'm not a priest anymore," Claude said.
Undine shot a warning look at Amadeus before nodding at Claude. "Ignore him." She leaned the broom against the centre house and took a log from the pile. "Why is a former priest travelling to the archives?"
Claude hadn't noticed her accent before. It was more of a ghost of an accent, and the echo of its presence clung to the edges of her words. "I'm looking for my mother."
Amadeus quirked a brow. "And your mother is... at the archives?"
"Well, she's a necromancer, and apparently that's the best place to look. I've already been told what I'm doing is suicide, so spare me the lecture, please."
Undine exchanged a long look with her colleague. "Quintus told us nothing of that. But..." She lifted a shoulder. "I suppose it wasn't his business to tell. Do you know her name?"
He shook his head. "She never mentioned her name or where she was, what she did, where she was going, or anything. I just know she wrote the Stargazer's Requiem and uses a crescent moon with a star as her signature."
Amadeus hummed the first few bars of the song. "That one?"
"Yes. Do you know who wrote it?"
"No. I've seen sheet music of the song and many of its variations, but the original composer remained unnamed. I think it was submitted to the archives anonymously."
"If you don't mind me asking, how did you and your mother get separated? It's alright if you don't want to tell me," Undine tacked on when Claude stayed silent.
"She left me with an elderly couple in Lehm. She used to send letters, saying we'd meet again once she found a safe home for us." Claude shook his head. "But they stopped when I turned fourteen."
She nodded. "There's a high chance she was running from the Divine City, then. 'Tis a tricky situation."
Amadeus set a pile of pots and pans near the pit. "There's nothing tricky about it. She's dead." He shrugged at Claude. "Sorry you had to find out this way."
"Amadeus," Undine warned.
Claude sucked in the draughty air and exhaled a hot breath and hoped his rising irritation went with it. "She's not dead until I find a corpse."
"Don't give him any false hope," Amadeus said to Undine.
She kissed her teeth. "I wouldn't have worded it so bluntly, but Amadeus does have a point. If she had to abandon you, there is a high chance the Divine City found out she's a necromancer. The letters stopping so abruptly is not a good sign either."
"I know." Claude scowled. "I'm just hoping..."
Undine smiled. "I won't fault you for that. Hope is all many of us have left."