Matabar

Ardan, who'd barely slept a few hours, finally reached the Black House. It was only his second time coming here alone, without any escort from the Second Chancery, and once again, he felt ill at ease.

The massive, black edifice, with its silvery window frames, seemed to press down on his shoulders. Its exterior looked more like a defensive fortress from the War of the Empire's Founding rather than a building of the sixth century after the Fall of Ectassus. It appeared rather inhospitable.

The clock's hands were edging toward midday, and the sun overhead, moving lazily along its slanted path, seemed to be in no rush. In six days, the Spring Equinox would arrive, and after that, daylight in the Metropolis would steadily grow stronger, ripping away ever larger pieces from the domain of night.

For now, though, the twilight and wet cold ruled the city without any competition.

Ardan adjusted the hat he'd been given by the cowboys in Evergale. His knitted cap, unfortunately, had perished in the Niewa's waters. People on the street and in the tram who'd noticed the young man's headwear had cast lingering looks in his direction. Some had been curious, some mocking, and others plainly disapproving or indignant.

"All right," Ardan exhaled, patting his pocket to ensure he had his Cloak papers. "Let's go."

Psyching himself up, Ardi climbed the steps and, after tugging on the heavy slab of a door, stepped inside. His recent visit to the Main Headquarters of the City Guard Corps was still fresh in his memory, and once again, he was struck by how similar official buildings looked.

However, the seat of the Second Chancery exuded a greater sense of… secrecy, perhaps. Here, mysteries and hidden truths held sway, whereas over in the guards' domain, it was raw power on ostentatious display.

Incidentally, and tellingly enough, there was no fence or checkpoint around the Black House. Then again, Ardan supposed that the Cloaks likely had no need for such things.

Someone tapped on the glass of the "guard booth" from the other side of the wooden walls. Ardan turned and spotted, amid piles of cardboard folders, steel cabinets, and several crates of signaling medallions, a rather bored-looking Bazhen Eorsky.

"Ah-"

"No names," Bazhen pleaded in a hoarse voice, rubbing his temples. He looked even thinner and more sickly than usual.

"But-"

"They caught me in a very... delicate situation," Bazhen said, cutting off the unspoken question. "With a certain... interesting lady under... thoroughly inappropriate circumstances. So now I'm working it off — three days on guard duty. Actually, I'm on my second day now, and I'm dying to get some sleep."

Ardan nodded numbly and just as dully showed him his leather holder.

Yawning almost obscenely, Bazhen flipped through several pages of a hefty logbook:

"They finally made you part of the staff, huh?" He jotted down a few notes, among which Ardi recognized his service number (no name) and his arrival time at the headquarters.

"Hey, how do I get to the supplies department?" Ardan asked.

"Take the eastern staircase to the second floor," Bazhen answered in a dull, drawn-out monotone. "Go straight down the corridor till you hit the end, and then go down the stairs until you reach a door. Knock."

Ardan, a bit taken aback by the instructions, nodded gratefully and was about to follow the directions when the sleepy young man called out after him:

"And take off that hat... cowboy."

Startled, Ardan pulled off the hat and, holding it in his hands, turned right — toward the staircases. His feet sank into a well-worn carpet that had gone stiff from long use, and Ardi tried not to look too closely at his surroundings. It seemed to him that if he let his gaze linger on anything for too long, he'd inevitably stumble upon some secret that had nothing to do with him.

And so, he hurried across the second floor, then descended a heavy concrete staircase — by his count, it clearly went below the first floor. As Bazhen had said, he soon came upon a door.

It was made of steel, massive, and had a forged handle that looked like a bent piece of rebar.

Instead of the usual doorbell powered by the Ley, there was a mounted door knocker shaped like a badger's paw. Ardan, shifting his hat and staff into his left hand, gave a few knocks.

A muffled clang sounded from the other side... and then, nothing. The young man waited in the small, dark antechamber of the Black House's basement, staring at the locked steel barrier. A minute passed. Then two, three… Ardi was beginning to suspect that it might be their day off, and that he really should have asked about the supply department's schedule. But then, suddenly, there came the rasp of a heavy bolt and the grinding of turning gears.

Slowly, along grooves hidden in the floor, the door swung inward. At first, Ardi could hardly believe his eyes. The door appeared to be some three inches thick, and it moved by means of a relay with a gear mechanism driving immense cogs. Without mechanical aid, not even a hulking orc could have budged such a monstrosity.

On the other side, wearing a formal business suit and a pair of pince-nez perched on a long, hooked nose, stood a short but powerfully built man.

He was bald on top but sported a thick, expressive beard. He looked like...

"A dwarf."

"Only a half-blood," the older dwarf-like figure rumbled, extending a hand in an inviting gesture. "Lieutenant Dagdag Gurov, young man, at your service."

Ardan stepped inside, and Dagdag, with surprising speed, rotated the relay behind them, sealing the door again. They found themselves in a modest space that looked, simultaneously, like a seamstress' workshop and a small showroom at the Spell Market, rather than any typical warehouse or storeroom.

Of course, considering the three even more massive doors beyond it, Ardi guessed that the Second Chancery was being true to form and only showing him the "storefront."

That "storefront" itself was neat and organized. The walls were covered with green wallpaper embellished by golden birds. A few armchairs flanked a small table. The wall to the right was lined with cabinets stretching all the way to the ceiling, from which hung simple Ley-lamps.

On the left stood a row of headless torsos — mannequins outfitted in the Cloaks' black uniforms. Standard three-piece suits of a deep ebony hue, vests with five buttons and a narrow collar, matching trousers, and — Ardan nearly thanked the Sleeping Spirits on the spot — boots and dress shoes. They looked a bit old-fashioned, with blunt, square toes, but in Ardi's circumstances, beggars couldn't be choosers.

Between these mannequins, on wide stands, were racks displaying revolvers of various calibers and even several sabers.

For a moment, Ardan lamented not having his analyzer at the ready — he still hadn't repaired it, and he was quite sure these displayed items were imbued with Ley energy. Probably in substantial amounts, too.

"A newcomer, eh?" Dagdag said, circling around Ardi and examining him with an appraising eye. "A mage. How many stars?"

"Two."

"Rays?"

"Seven and nine."

The half-blood let out a low whistle. Though, given his dwarven jaw structure — which included forty-eight teeth instead of the usual thirty-six — the sound was more like the squeal of a stalled engine.

After rummaging in his pocket, Dagdag produced a soft measuring tape, dragged over a step stool — it was more part stool, part ladder — and began taking Ardan's measurements. As the son of a seamstress, Ardi knew better than to squirm, letting the man move him about as needed.

The dwarven half-blood raised Ardan's arms to measure his chest and waist, then ran the tape along his legs to his ankles, from hip to heel, from shoulder to wrist, from his neck to the dip of his collarbone, measuring around his waist, hips, chest, forearm, and everything else.

The procedure lasted a good fifteen minutes. Through it all, Dagdag scratched away with a pencil, returning again and again to the tape measure, until a schematic outline of Ardi took shape in his notebook — complete with every measurement.

"You're familiar with the procedure?" The half-blood asked, hopping off the stool.

"More or less," Ardan answered vaguely, without elaborating.

"Good," Dagdag said, moving to an armchair and opening a logbook on the table. Ardi recognized the type — government offices, shops, you name it, all of them had a similar ledger. Dagdag skimmed through the entries with his finger. "The next available date for tailoring is in three weeks. We'll send a courier."

He didn't ask for an address. Clearly, that was no mystery to the Second Chancery.

"Mr. Gurov, about-"

"You can just call me Dagdag," said the half-blood, stroking his beard streaked with gray.

"All right, Dagdag. I wanted to ask about... shoes."

Dagdag only spread his hands.

"Funding's been cut, newcomer. So we issue only one winter pair."

Ardan glanced over at the black dress shoes displayed near the mannequins.

"And that, newcomer," Dagdag said with a certain pride in his voice, "is standard-issue footwear."

"Standard-issue?"

"Use your analyzer."

Ardan rolled up his sleeve, revealing a bare wrist — well, nearly. He wore a steel-cased watch there, and that was what drew Dagdag's attention. The dwarf-blooded man, setting the log aside, unceremoniously grabbed Ardan's arm and tugged him downward with surprising force.

Then he seized Ardan's wrist, bringing it close to the lenses of his pince-nez. With deft, practiced skill worthy of a master pickpocket, he undid the watch's leather strap in a single motion, and for a few seconds, he studied the underside of the casing.

"Huh," he finally muttered, handing the watch back to Ardi. "It's real... not a counterfeit. Authentic."

"Authentic?" Ardan repeated as he refastened the watch on his wrist.

Dagdag gave him a quizzical look.

"You don't know?" He asked, a hint of amusement in his tone. "They're made by Linyri Irika. You haven't heard of them?"

Ardan shook his head. The name meant nothing to him.

"Not surprising," Dagdag said, turning his back to Ardi to resume scribbling notes. "They're a watchmaking company that's been around for three and a half centuries or so. Their workshop and office are on Old Craftsmen's Street. But these are some of the most expensive watches in the world, young man. They only release a new collection every ten years, mostly custom orders. Prices start at seven hundred exes and can rise to truly insane sums."

Ardan looked at his watch in disbelief. His father, Hector Egobar, had given it to him when he was very young. Hector used to say he'd gotten it during his service. Back then, Ardi had assumed that meant his father's patrols in the Alcade. Perhaps he'd found it somewhere...

Now, with all he'd learned of his family's past, maybe it had come from Hector's time on the Fatian border. So, Ardi had spent all these years wearing a watch that wasn't originally his…?

"Yours is from a special collection," Dagdag went on. "They released it about thirty years ago, to commemorate the end of the Fatian Massacre. It was commissioned by the Crown. The now-late Emperor traveled personally to the border to hand these out to distinguished officers."

Ardan felt his heart skip a beat.

"He handed them out?" He asked.

"Yes, he handed them out," Dagdag repeated. "They produced only eleven of these watches. They have a platinum casing. An additional crystal shell. Forty-two sapphires in the movement mechanisms. They're self-winding, waterproof, shock and heat-resistant. On the underside, there's an engraving of the Empire's crest and the name of the honoree."

Ardan recalled the back of the watch quite well — he'd worn it almost his entire life, discounting those six years he'd spent among the beasts of the Alcade. He had never seen a two-headed phoenix or any name engraved there, just a smooth, featureless casing.

"Try flipping the lid," Dagdag suggested, as if reading his thoughts. "There's a little latch there. Press it."

Ardan unbuckled the strap again, and after carefully examining the casing, he found a small metal "tail" hidden by the band's attachment points.

He carefully pried it out with his nail, and sure enough, the watch's rear cover swung open, revealing the intricate collection of gears and tiny components ticking away behind a crystal plate.

On the underside of the lid, the Empire's crest shone. And there was a long inscription around it:

"To Major Hec Abar. Hero of the Empire. Honor, Dignity, Brotherhood."

Ardi felt a knot form in his throat, as if a tiny hedgehog with sharp quills had rolled itself tightly inside. For a moment, his vision blurred and wavered.

Turning away, the young man surreptitiously wiped his eyes against his sleeve. Then he exhaled and closed the watch's casing again, warmth spreading through him as though a pair of rough, calloused and yet beloved hands had taken his in their familiar grasp.

"Do you want me to tell you how much they can go for?" Dagdag suggested.

"I'd rather not know," Ardan said.

He truly didn't want to know. Whatever the sum, no amount of money could measure the watch's real value to him.

"I see," the dwarven half-blood rumbled. "So, are you an investigator or an operative?"

"Investigator."

"Then you're entitled to a standard outfit allotment of one set per quarter."

Ardan deflated a little. His present clothes were in tatters, and a government suit might help, but it wouldn't entirely solve his wardrobe problems. Which reminded him of something else.

"So, what else does a Third-Rank Investigator with the rank of Corporal get?" He asked.

Dagdag set his pencil aside and leaned back in his chair.

"Seeing as you have no prior record of service and no real seniority," he mused, "you're exempt from taxes, you can eat at our "Eltir" cafeteria chain free of charge, you get a new set of uniforms once every quarter, plus a fixed housing allowance of one ex and ten kso. You also get complete medical coverage — by the way, our clinic is-"

"In Tendari, at the intersection of Miner Street and Seventh Avenue."

"Oh, so you have been there?"

Recalling his first meeting with the Colonel, Ardan muttered, "I guessed."

"Are you married? Any children?"

"No."

"Then the family provisions aren't going to be of interest," Dagdag said with a dismissive wave. "What else... You get six weeks of annual leave."

"Not eight?"

"Eight is for officers with at least five years of service," Dagdag snapped crisply. "Then there are various licenses to carry firearms and staves, plus guidelines on how to use them, but that's all part of the job."

"Is there anything specifically for mages?" Ardan pressed, sensing that the list of benefits from serving the crown was reaching its end.

"Mages get a higher salary," the half-blood retorted. "High enough that it's almost uncouth to mention. We do what we can, but Parliament keeps cutting our budget. For nearly a quarter of a century, most of our funding has come straight from the Crown, which doesn't have unlimited resources. And... that's the Witch's Gaze, yeah? So, you must be Ard Egobar?"

Ardan nodded.

"In that case, one moment," Dagdag said. He walked over to one of the cabinets, pulled open a bottom drawer, and retrieved two documents bearing the Imperial crest.

Coming back, he handed them to Ardan.

Ardi recognized that the first was a special pass — an unlimited one, it seemed — for the Grand University Library. He'd previously received a single-use pass when investigating the Selena Lorlov case.

The second document, however, was more curious:

Permission to review and work with Case Number:

"No Number"

Name: "Mountain Predator"

Classification: "Top Secret"

Below that were several signatures and a date that, surprisingly, matched the day Ardan had returned to the capital after visiting his family in Delpas.

"The archive is that way," Dagdag said, pointing at the iron door in the middle of the three.

"Oh... right," Ardi mumbled.

He had almost forgotten, amidst all the recent chaos, about "Operation Mountain Predator," the cause of his father's people's demise.

His father's people...

Strangely, Ardi couldn't always bring himself to think of them as "my people."

Just as he couldn't say the same for the Galessians, who comprised the majority of the Empire's population.

Amusing, really...

So many years had passed, and he still couldn't answer the question: "Who am I?" Perhaps he wasn't even trying anymore. There were plenty of other matters to deal with.

"When can I review it?" Ardi asked, tucking the documents into the inner pocket of his jacket.

"Review what?" Dagdag asked, face expressionless, though it was obvious he knew precisely what was written there.

"What do you mean, 'what?' The case of-"

"Ahem," Dagdag coughed theatrically. "What case would that be, sir?"

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

He quite demonstratively avoided naming anything and kept his voice carefully neutral.

"Ah... got it," Ardan replied, eliciting a hint of a smile from Dagdag. "So, when does the archive open?"

"Leave a request with the duty officer a week before the date you'd like to visit."

"Understood," Ardi said, somewhat bowing his head, then glanced again at the uniforms, revolvers, and sabers.

"That's all special equipment," Dagdag explained at last. "With passive Star Magic shields and made from materials derived from Ley-based flora and fauna. It's mostly issued to operatives for, well... specialized operations."

Ardan recalled the scene of Katerina asking Yonatan if she could use some special bullet. Then there was Yonatan himself, whose saber hadn't cracked even when the mutant had cleaved a lead bullet in half with it, not to mention Din Erson's knives or Alexander Ursky's brass knuckles.

"It's all bespoke gear," Dagdag said with genuine pride. "For field missions or for the Daggers."

"I see," Ardan said. "And official transport?"

"That's only for First-Rank Investigators."

"Ah..."

"Young man, the Crown already pays your salary, feeds you, clothes you, covers your medical bills… What else do you want? Someone to wipe your backside and carry you from home to headquarters in their arms?"

"I see," Ardan repeated.

"In three weeks, we'll have your uniform delivered by courier."

And with that, their conversation ended. Ardan left Lieutenant Dagdag Gurov's domain, and, passing through the deceptively deserted corridors of the Black House (everyone, as usual, was hidden behind double doors leading to various departments), he made his way back to the first floor, where he said goodbye to Bazhen./

Bazhen merely waved a hand and, yawning widely, went back to reading... a cheap romance novel for ladies. The young man, as far as Ardi could tell, was a rather strange person, with a mind and temperament that were hard to fathom.

Stepping outside, Ardan spotted the tram he needed as it pulled into the stop. Gripping his staff, he dashed across the street, muttering apologies whenever he bumped someone with his shoulder or the tip of his staff.

He practically leaped onto the tram's step as it was pulling away, handed his pass to the conductor, and, after it was stamped, made his way to his favorite seat.

It was right at the back of the car, on a broad bench where the jolting was strongest and almost no one liked to sit. Settling on the still-slightly-chilly wooden seat, Ardi unfolded the letter from his mother — which had been delayed — for a quick read.

He closed his eyes for a moment and breathed in the paper's scent. It smelled of fresh pastries, floral perfume, and... home. A scent he knew belonged to his mother alone.

The young man opened the letter and began to read it as the tram rattled on toward the hospital. Boris was finally being discharged today, and Ardan had promised to help with his things and keep him company.

Ardi smiled wistfully at the letter in his hands and read on.

"Hello, my Son.

I'm writing in a rush to wish you a happy birthday! I hope this letter finds you not too early and not too terribly late.

You know, I'm writing this down while sitting beneath a blanket on the porch. I'm rocking in my chair, watching the spring birds fly in from the southeast. They bring warmth and joy on their wings. And that same warmth and joy stir in my own heart whenever I remember our old, rickety house in the Alcade.

Do you remember how you used to run through the nearby groves until late in the evening, imagining yourself to be a ranger from ancient Ectassus? Or how you'd try to read my few books — nibbling on the tip of your tongue in that funny way of yours — pretending you were a great wizard in a tall tower?

Or how you once wept inconsolably, deep into the evening, after seeing a hungry bird catch a grasshopper. You scolded that bird, railing at it with all your might, only to feel sorry for it in turn and cry again when a hawk came and took it away.

From the very first moment I felt your heart beating inside me — when your tiny foot kicked my belly from within — I loved you, my son. Every ounce of you. Every breath, every cry, every smile and laugh.

I adored watching you leap across our meadow, laughing and playing with the squirrels and wildcats who came to see you from your earliest years.

I loved how you would welcome your father back from hunting — may the Sleeping Spirits guide his path — and how intently you listened when I would share the teachings and words of the Prophet.

Your heart felt compassion for anyone in trouble, and your eyes gazed at the world openly, endlessly wondering what lay beyond the next boulder, around the bend of the stream, past the canyon, and finally, beyond the Alcade's borders.

I always knew — perhaps I knew from the start — that one day, you'd leave. You'd set off on your long, perilous journey. Because that's who you are.

You're a descendant of the Egobar, kin to the mighty Matabar. And you are also descended from the Taakov family, who've served the Empire for centuries.

But most important of all — you are Ardi. My sweet, kindhearted son.

On this day, I pray that, no matter how far your path takes you, no matter how many hardships and trials your strong shoulders must bear… I wish for you to never lose that warmth in your heart or that honest light in your eyes.

I love you, my boy. With all my heart and soul.

As for us, everything's the same as ever. Kelly's grown accustomed to his new position and has even taken to it with a zeal and excitement I never thought I'd see in him. Your younger brother gets himself into scrapes every now and then, but don't worry — he deals with them bravely, and I'm proud of him for that. This fall, Kena starts first grade at school. We're all a little on edge about it, while she only waits for the day you'll bring her that… that stuffed bear. It seems to be the only thing on her mind.

I received the money you sent last month. Truly, Ardi, it's not necessary, but… I understand. I understand you must do as you feel bound to do. The same way your father did.

And your grandfather… and great-grandfather.

You know, as I watch Erti and Kena playing in the garden, I find my gaze drifting toward the mountain peaks on the horizon. I remember our meadow. Our home. And that greenhouse we never managed to fix before the frosts came.

I suppose this is what people call nostalgia.

But I feel like — or maybe it's just my wishful thinking — one day, my son, we'll all return there. And we'll sit around our kitchen again, talking and laughing for hours on end.

This, too, is a wish I have for you.

Wherever you are, remember you have a home and a family. And we will always love you and wait for you here.

Happy Birthday.

With all my love,

Your mother,

Shaia."

Ardan read the letter once more, then once again...

"Are you all right, young man?"

He flinched, looking up at a middle-aged lady in a fine coat and elegant rings worn right over her gloves. She also wore a blue cloak draped over her back, and her epaulets shone with a pattern of three, two, then three rays once again.

"My car wouldn't start," she said with a kind, warm smile, pushing aside a few chestnut strands laced with gray, neatly pinned under a stylish hat with a small veil in the back. "My chauffeur stayed behind to fix it, and so I decided: why waste time? I'll just hop on the tram."

Ardi nodded, folding the letter with great care and tucking it into his inside pocket.

"From home?" She asked, nodding at the envelope disappearing inside his coat.

"Yes."

She smiled again, radiantly and easily — the sort of smile that belonged to someone whose heart is light and filled with love.

"It shows," she said. Opening a handbag that looked to be worth about as much as the whole tramcar, she took out a flat, oval powder compact. "Would you like some?" She asked. "Your eyes are red."

"No, thank you," Ardan answered politely.

She took no offense, slipping the compact back into her bag.

"Are you off to the hospital too?"

"Yes."

"To visit someone?" She suddenly caught herself. "Oh, forgive my rudeness. I completely forgot my manners."

"It's all right," Ardi said quickly, hoping to reassure her. "I'm going to see a friend."

"To visit or…?"

"He's being discharged today."

"Thank the Eternal Angels," the stranger murmured, making the sacred sign of the Face of Light's faith. "I hope they'll discharge mine soon as well."

"You're going to see a friend too?"

"In a manner of speaking," she answered with a soft smile. "My son."

"What happened to him?"

Her face, which until that moment had seemed almost youthful and glowing, darkened slightly as if a lamp had flickered out.

"He got in with the wrong crowd at the university and was injured… He's always been out to prove something, ever since he was little. Perhaps it's because he barely saw his father — my husband was always busy with business. As for his older brothers…" She waved the thought away, then pulled out a handkerchief and gently dabbed the corners of her eyes. "He's been getting into fights ever since school. Oh, the trouble we've had… once I even had to" — she lowered her voice to a whisper — "pay off the guards so they'd turn a blind eye. And I suppose he always knew something like this might happen someday. We both did, I guess. But it still hurts, and it's still terrifying. Even though the doctors and Star Healers have given me a hopeful prognosis, because of his spinal injury, he'll never run again, and without a staff or cane, he can't stand on his own. All he can do is sit or lie down. Maybe one day, the healers will invent new spells that could help him, but… Oh, I'm so sorry, young man. It's just so easy talking to you — like chatting with an old friend. Please forgive me, in the name of the Face of Light."

She started to say more, but a bell rang and the conductor called out in a sonorous baritone, "Martyrs'' Tears Hospital!"

Ardan stepped off first and offered her his hand. Gratefully, she smiled and, leaning on his palm, came down after him.

They both approached the grand but rather somber building, went through the revolving doors, and found themselves in the lobby. Familiar with hospital procedure by now, they took off their coats in the cloakroom and pulled on smocks and special shoe covers.

There was a queue at the information desk where the nurses worked, so they had to part ways there.

Ardan gave his surname, and at the same time, he overheard, from somewhere to his left:

"Anastasia Kerimov. I'm here to see my son."

He nearly dropped the pen he'd dipped in ink to sign in. He turned and looked at the tall, gracious woman who was so clearly carrying a great pain in her very heart.

Summoning her courage and trying not to show how much it hurt, she signed the ledger. After finding out where she needed to go, she headed for the staircases leading to the far wing.

Ardan felt his mother's letter burn against his chest.

"Sir, will you be signing in or not?" The nurse asked, a touch impatient.

"Oh, yes," he said, startled. "I'm sorry."

"It's all right."

"Well, we are in a queue," someone grumbled behind him.

Ardan apologized once more to the people he was delaying, scribbled his name down, and hurried off to meet his… friends. Yes, he'd decided they were his friends.

Climbing the stairs, he couldn't shake an echo in his mind, one that was howling in a wolfish voice at him:

"One day, little Speaker, you'll understand that the power bestowed upon you by the Sleeping Spirits is, more often than not, something you don't want to bring forth in this world..."

Kerimov had a mother — one who loved him, who'd raised him, who'd carried him inside her for nine months.

Just like… everyone. All of them. Everyone Ardan had…

His breathing grew uneven. He staggered, gripping the banister and clutching his staff in his free hand, sliding slowly against the wall.

Tess had a mother, too. And a father. Brothers and sisters. What if… what if something happened to her? What if he couldn't get there in time? Couldn't protect her? Couldn't manage?

What if…

"Tomorrow's worries," he muttered under his breath. "Think about them tomorrow… Tomorrow's worries… Tomorrow's worries…"

But it did him little good. His heart was pounding so violently it felt as though his chest might crack. Sweat seemed to pour from every pore. He felt sick, dizzy, with a roaring in his ears like thunder.

Suddenly, it all stopped.

Ardan drew a deep breath, shook his head, and realized he could see clearly again.

Next to him, right on the stairs, sat… an elf. He was ageless. He had almond-shaped eyes with irises so large they nearly blotted out the whites. He also possessed a figure so lithe it could rival a fashion model, and a face worthy of the great beauties of Scaldavin or Urdavan.

He wore a white coat with a yellow badge, and he was smoking. Ardi had never seen an elf smoke, but this one was puffing away so heavily that even Milar might've seemed like a first-time smoker by comparison.

"A panic attack," the elf said.

"What?"

"That's what just happened to you, Matabar." The elf was speaking Old Elvish from the northern forest, which was a language that belonged to the era of Ectassus, and a dialect Ardi had studied so he could read certain fascinating scrolls from Atta'nha's collection. "Humans came up with the term for it. We used to call it…"

"'A Frightened Heart,'" Ardan finished.

The elf flicked ash through the rails of the stairwell, then nodded in silence.

"You speak with a funny accent, Matabar."

"I rare speak tongue this."

The elf smiled, revealing perfect pearly teeth.

"I can tell." He took another long drag, then stubbed out the cigarette on the step, pocketing the butt. Rising to his feet, he dusted himself off, picked up a staff made of gleaming white wood, and headed down. Halfway, he paused without turning around.

"Do you know how to brew a tonic for a Frightened Heart?"

"Any brew calm mind would do," Ardi affirmed.

The elf healer left, never giving his name. And yet something about him struck Ardan as vaguely familiar.

Then it hit him: they had met once before — at the ball marking the coronation of the current Emperor. This elf had been part of Duke Abrailaal's retinue. But if that was the case, why had he bothered to help Ardan…?

Ardi watched as the healer disappeared around the bend in the corridor.

Well, that was certainly a matter for tomorrow's worries.

Dusting himself off, smoothing down his ruffled hair, and doing his best to appear like a man — and a Matabar and a half-blood — who was in perfectly fine spirits, Ardi climbed the last few steps and walked into the room he needed.

As always, it was lit with a bright but gentle light. Ardan now knew that this illumination wasn't just coming from the sky outside. The windows had hidden channels for Ley wiring, which explained the steady glow.

Boris was there in his usual flamboyant, brightly-colored suit, his right leg bandaged. Leaning on a staff, he watched as Elena, who was wearing a warm dress, packed up his luggage.

"Oh, Ardi!" Boris waved at him from behind the bed, nearly losing his balance.

"Stand still for at least two minutes," Elena pleaded. She paused in her work to offer Ardi a tired but happy smile. "Hello, Ardi. How was the trip?"

"No incidents," Ardi lied on the spot and set about helping pack up Boris' things.

With another pair of hands, the task went more quickly. Suitcase after suitcase (most of which, it turned out, contained Elena's belongings, since she'd practically lived here) piled onto the floor, and gradually, the shelves and cabinets were emptied.

All the while, Boris was busy proclaiming, "Next year, I'm definitely igniting a Green Star." He wouldn't let up. "Sure, the Student League takes Red Star Mages, but that's just for fun. The real League is Green Star or higher. Who knows? If I make it to the finals, maybe I'll reach the Global League."

"And why would you even want that?" Ardi asked, helping Elena stack her Star Engineering textbooks.

"Why?" Boris looked almost offended. "What else is a military mage supposed to do? Head off to the northern borders? They only let us out into the field for the big stuff — grand-scale strategic maneuvers. There's no fun in that. But here… it's a real duel."

"I still don't see what's so good about duels."

"I agree with you, Ardi," Elena said with a nod.

Boris waved her off. "Oh, what do you two bookworms know?" He huffed. Then, in a dreamy voice, he added, "When the blood's pumping, spells are whirling, and it's just you against your opponent in a contest of wit and speed… Bliss. Not to mention the prize money."

Ardi twitched. "Prize money?" He tried to mask his interest, but Elena still gave him a sideways glance.

"Of course! In the sponsored leagues, it depends on the sponsor. In the student leagues, it's even smaller. But in the global arena…" Boris raised his index finger. "Besides, in three and a half years — just in time for our fourth-year transfer exams — the Metropolis will host the International Magical Boxing Championship. Delegations from all over the world will come! Imagine it, Ard: so many different Star Mages and traditions. Selkado Knights, the Kargaam Shamans, Lan'Duo'Ha Spirit-Wielders, the classic Star Mages of Castilia, Scaldavin, Urdavan, the Confederation of Free Cities…"

From his History of Magic classes, Ardi knew that Star Magic varied by country. Countless approaches existed, though the so-called "classic" style used by Imperial Star Mages was by far the most widespread. There were others, though, with narrower and more specialized approaches.

He'd already had a run-in with the Selkado Knights once, and to be honest, he had no desire to repeat that experience.

"Reaching the international stage isn't so easy, Boris," Ardi reminded him.

"If it were easy, my friend, what would be the point?"

Elena snapped a suitcase shut, fixing her husband with a fiery, passionate look. "If you land yourself back in a hospital bed, Boris, and I have to spend another few months of my life spoon-feeding you, just know — I'll do it, of course… but the rest of your life will be so miserable that even the Angels will weep!"

Boris went pale, and Elena snorted, grabbed the lightest case, and stormed out of the room, leaving the door wide open.

"Women…" Boris muttered, voice a little shaky.

"What did the doctors say?" Ardi asked.

"That I can walk on my own in about a month."

"And what did Elena say?"

"To stay out of trouble."

"Which advice will you follow more?"

Boris' face paled in sheer terror.

"What do you think?"

They exchanged a look, each nodding in silent agreement.

***

Ardan opened the door, and a melodious bell chimed overhead. At once, he was hit by the faintly-perfumed air of the atelier, an aroma meant to mask the smell of fabric.

Everything looked the same as it had during Ardi's first visit: there were plenty of mannequins, fabric samples, suits, dresses, coats… The only difference was the seasonal shift in the display models.

"Mr. Egobar," the owner greeted him.

"Mrs. Okladov," Ardi replied.

The proprietress looked just as he remembered her — stern, businesslike, and perhaps a bit… masculine in her manner. She was quite different from most of the women Ardan had met.

"She'll be done soon," Mrs. Okladov said, her glasses perched on her nose as she worked through ledgers and receipts, shifting around piles of folded fabrics all the while.

With a moment to spare, Ardan wandered among the mannequins. Ever since moving to the Metropolis — or maybe because his mother was a seamstress — he'd caught himself paying more attention to clothing. Not the cheap, secondhand pieces he used to buy for an ex at Tend's flea markets, but real, finely-tailored suits.

Had the Metropolis changed him that much, or had the showy Orcish Jackets and the various posh city suits perhaps gotten under his skin?

He paused by a particular ensemble that caught his eye: a black-and-navy satin jacket, without stripes, perfectly fitted, paired with a sleek vest featuring a deep neckline, sharp-creased trousers, and a red pocket square that practically glowed against a pearl-white shirt — it was as blindingly white as elven teeth.

"For your measurements, it'd be no less than sixty-eight exes, Mr. Egobar," Mrs. Okladov said, as though reading his mind.

"I see…" Ardi sighed.

That put it about as far out of his reach as finding a buried treasure — just like in one of his grandfather's tales about a naïve country fellow who stumbles upon a fortune.

"You might consider getting that cloak mended," she added.

In the mirror's reflection, he saw himself draped in that tattered, often-patched red cloak. Ever since lighting his Green Star, he'd lost all hope of ever repairing the thing. He was just letting it fray bit by bit.

Soon enough, he'd have to replace it anyway.

"Ardi?"

He turned to see Tess stepping out from the workroom. She wore a simple gray coat, an old, well-worn hat, and scuffed gloves. Her boots had seen better days, and her dress, from what he could guess, had been sewn from leftover fabric that Mrs. Okladov must have given to her as a bonus.

"You look stunning," Ardi murmured. To him, Tess was a fairy-tale figure in whose presence even the Sidhe Fae — like Madame Senhi'Sha — seemed to fade away.

"All right, off with you both," Mrs. Okladov said briskly, waving a hand as though to shoo them away. "Your phero… oh, whatever you call it — I read about it in a magazine just yesterday… Anyway! Go on, before my fabrics grow moldy."

"Pheromones," Ardan reminded her with a slight grin, and held out his arm.

Tess — her cheeks red, likely from the shop's chill — laid her hand on his elbow. Together, they stepped out onto the street.

***

They ended up waiting in a very long line. The new ice cream café opening had caused quite a stir, and a downright ridiculous number of people were queued up outside. Judging by their clothes, most of them were middle class: bookkeepers, clerks, staff from design or engineering firms, reporters, ad agents, and so on. Freed for a moment from their dusty, stuffy offices, they'd dragged along their wives and children for a treat, and were all caught up in the buzz.

On the ground floor of the tenement building, a glass display sparkled with the Ley wires running under it. Behind that window, illusionary bees were alighting on flowers to collect nectar and then carrying it into jars, which then turned into jam. A mechanical ice cream maker, driven by large gears, was scooping dollops of sweetness and packing them into enormous sundaes filled with soapy bubbles.

Those bubbles ran along little pipes, pouring out onto the street from aluminum ice cream cones painted in bright colors. Children laughed and grabbed at the floating suds, and the adults, every now and then, would stealthily snatch one on a fingertip and exchange quiet smiles.

Tess pressed her nose against the glass, mouth slightly agape in delight. She laughed, grinned, and hopped up to catch a rainbow bubble, just like the children.

Ardan stood at her side, unconcerned about the prices scrawled in chalk on a black board outside. He wasn't thinking about Mrs. Kerimov, or the Black House, or Star Magic, or anything at all.

He just watched the red-haired girl playing with the children and the swirling bubbles. A feeling of calm settled over his heart like a gentle mist, more soothing than any tonic he could ever brew.

Finally, one of the café's attendants — stationed out front to manage the crowd — ushered them inside.

The interior was modest: a floor covered in simple white tiles, cozy iron tables draped in tablecloths, and that was basically it. Well, plus the window display, which looked less magical from the inside, and to the left, there was a long freezer beneath a glass dome.

That freezer was the real draw. In its metal containers, under a haze of frosty vapor, lay colorful mounds of ice cream in every flavor imaginable: berries, forest fruits, fresh-baked bread, the taste of a gentle kiss, a pleasant memory, the very first ray of summer — yes, there was even the flavor of a family's embrace after a long separation.

Ardan smiled softly.

Someone in line would inevitably ask, "But how can you have an 'embrace' flavor?"

And the café staff would always reply, "That's the chef's secret," offering them the choice of either a waffle cone or a bowl.

Only humans seemed to be working there, but once you saw the flavors, you could guess that this mysterious "chef" understood a good deal about Aean'Hane enchantments.

"Would you like a cone or a bowl?" Asked a young man in the neat uniform of an ice cream vendor.

Ardan glanced at Tess.

"Let's eat here," she said, pointing to a small table in the far corner that had just opened up. "It feels magical."

"Thank you," said the young man with a bright smile. "We're so glad you like it."

He was human — or looked it — but little stars seemed to sparkle in his eyes, and he smelled like pine forests, spring streams, and clouds. The young woman next to him laughed and played with the children in line.

No normal person smells like that, Ardan thought.

But after all… summer was coming.

"Let's just get one scoop each," Tess whispered, eyeing the prices.

The simplest flavors ran for thirty-five kso a scoop, which was already a fortune for ice cream. The special flavors started at two exes.

"I'll have gooseberry-" she began.

"It's on the house," the young man suddenly said, looking at Ardan with shining eyes. "Take as much as you like."

"Uh…"

"You're our 173rd customer," the youth explained swiftly, "and we're absolutely delighted to have you."

"What a strange promotion," Tess said, but she was quickly distracted by the fun of choosing her flavors and forgot what she'd been about to ask.

"Thank you," Ardan said in the Fae tongue. "Highborn Sidhe."

The young man dipped his head. The girl at his side shot Ardan a discreet smile before turning her attention back to the children.

In the end, Tess settled on three scoops: gooseberry, "the first swallow's flight," and "spring rain in a pine forest."

Ardan chose two scoops of blackberry and one scoop of blueberry. As payment, he pressed his hand against the counter and called upon the faint echo of that winter Name he'd invoked so often during the colder months. Now that spring's warmth was in full bloom, it was harder to make the Snow and Ice heed him. But here, next to the freezing counter, with so many people blissfully eating ice cream, it was a touch easier.

Straining, he managed to conjure one small snowflake onto his palm.

Carefully, he lifted it and placed it into one of the freezer's frosty clouds. The snowflake merged with the chilly mist, thickening it, and an intricate pattern of frost spread out across the glass dome and display window, delighting the children outside.

"Thank you, young Speaker," the "human" said softly, so no one else could hear.

Ardan inclined his head. He and Tess carried their sundaes to the corner table. For the first few minutes, the girl ate in silence. Then she closed her eyes and smiled in a way Ardi had never seen before. Her hair seemed to flutter slightly, her face smoothing over as though she truly had become a swallow, soaring up to brush the clouds above with her wings.

This was the magic of the Aean'Hane.

Ardi, for his part, simply enjoyed what might have been the most delicious blackberry ice cream of his life.

Summer Fae were quite different from their Winter kin. From reading Atta'nha's scrolls, Ardan knew some of the Summer Court took pleasure in visiting humans and bringing them gifts. Still, he'd never imagined that the Fae would come here — to the very heart of the Metropolis.

"I wonder how they do it," Tess mused, stirring her ice cream with her spoon. "I've never tasted anything like this."

Ardan smiled. He felt no anxiety about the disguised Fae. No one, not even Aversky himself — probably — would've been able to figure out who they truly were. People had long ago forgotten about the scraps of simple magic that lay buried in the dusty pages of history.

Still, he figured it was wiser not to meddle or come back here too often. Fae — Sidhe in particular — followed their own hidden logic, and it was best to keep one's distance.

Tess suddenly tensed, her gaze shifting to something behind Ardan.

"And you rejected me, Tess, for the sake of this trash?"